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This edition of Select Poims of Wotdsworth and 
Coleridge is deaigned as f aid to the study of EngliHh 
T 'terature in High Schoois, ^re especially the Literature 
p«^ bribed for Matriculation anH Departimental Examina- 
tions, 1906, in Ontario and Manitoba. The present volume 
endeavours to bring together from many quarters whatever 
critical apparatus elementary studentii will require, to make 
possible for such as use it the thorough study of the poetry 
it contains. 

The text of these Selections has beer drawn in every 
case from the authoritative editions issued by the authors 
themselves. Wherever possible, each pjera has been 
followed from earliest editions till latest, i the hope that 
the text might be made trustworthy in every detail The 
variant readings have been noted, and will be tr ,nd of 
interest to readers, as well as useful in the study of literary 
expression. For similar reasons, care has been taken to cite 
the sources of poetical passages, not only that a clearer 
sense of poetic excellence may be attained, but also that 
an insight may be aflForded into the genesis of pootry and 
the difference between poetry and prose. 

The Appendix contains many poems that furnish inter- 
esting comparisons with the prescribed Selections, but in 
the main it is designed merely as a collection of jjoetry 
suitable for literary study without the aid of notes or 
other critical apparatus. 










. xxxi 


The Reverie of Poor Susan . 


To my Sister 


Expostulation and Reply . . 


The Tables Turned .. 


Influence of Natural Ohiec . 






The Solitary Reaper 


TI j«e Years She Grew in Sun and Shower 


To a Skylark 

■ • ■ 


The Green Linnet 


To the Cuckoo 


She Was a Phantom or' Delight . . 


Scorn Not the Sonnet 


Upon Westminster Bridge , . 


Composed by the Seaside . . 


Written in London, SeptemVier, 1802 


It is Not to be Thought of that the Flood 


When I have Borne in Memory . . 

■ • 


Thought of a Briton . 


To Sleep 

■ ■ • 



Brodi ! Whose Society Cm Poet Seeki . . . . 40 

Inside of King's College Chapel 00 

King's College Chapel Oontinued SI 

To the Daisy 02 

Ode to Duty 0S 

Elegiac Stanzas 00 

To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth 08 

September, 1819 61 

Upon the Same Occasion . . 0S 

CoLnuooK : — 

The Ancienv Mariner 67 

Nom— Wordsworth 97 

" Coleridge IT 

Appkmoix %'• 













References. — The Romantic movement, of which 
Wordsworth is <:ne of tlie chief English exponents, 
may be studied witli tlie .lid of Plielps's Beginnings of 
the Englinh Romantic Mitrrmcnt ; Beers's Engliith Ro- 
manticism ; Courtliope's Liberal Mnremcnt in English 
Literature; and Dowden's French Revolution and 
English Literature. 

Biogrupliical stuciy of Wordsworth must be chiefly 
based on Wordsworth's Prelude, an invaluable study 
of the poet's own development, and his autobiograph- 
ical Memoranda of 1847. Other works of value are: 
Memoirs of William Wordsworth, by Christopher 
Wordsworth; Coleridge, Biographia Literaria : De 
Quincey, Lake Poets; Ilazlitt, First Acquaintance 
icith Poets; Knight, Life of Wordsworth (vols, ix., x., 
xi. of Works), Memoirs of Coleorton; Proceedings, 
Wordsworth Society (six vols., selections of which are 
in Wordsworthiana) ; Myers, Wordsworth, "English 
Men of Ijetters" series ; Symington. William Words- 
worth ; Sutherland, Williatn Wordsirorth, 2nd ed., 
1892; Elizabeth Wordsworth, William Wordsworth; 
Legouis, Early Life of William Wordsworth, 1770-1798. 


Essays and criticisms of most ralue are: Arnold, 
/tntrodnctlon to Selectiotu of Wordatcorth; Church, ^i^ 
^%J)ante, etc.; Dowden, 8tudie$ in Literature; Morley 
7 (Introdnctlon to his ed.) : Pater, AppreciaUo n* ; Sar- 
razln, Renaissance de la po^ie'anglalse ; ^hdrer, Es- 
says on English Literature; Shalrp, On Poetic Inter- 
pretation of Nature and Studies in Poetry and Phi- 
losophy; Bagehot, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Brown- 
ing; Hatton, Essa ys, etc. The best brief Introduction 
to Wordsworth is Magnus, Primer of Wordsworth. 
Studies of the Lake Country are afforded by Knight, 
Brooke (Dov:. Cottage), Burroughs (Fnih Fields), Conway 
(ffarper'a, Dec., 1880, Jan., Feb., 1881), etc. 

The best editions are Knight, eleven vols., 1887- 
1889; Dowden, seven vols., 1892-3; Morley, one vol., 
1894; annotated editions of selected poems, Rolfe 
(Harper's), Rowe and Webb (MacmlUan), Dowden 

The ideals of the eighteenth century are far re- 
moved from those of the nineteenth, whether we con- 
sider manners, government, or poetry. The men of 
the eighteenth century were enamored of urban life, 
especially of London life. London Hfe had acquired 
for them unequalled zest by the introduction of coffee- 
houses, which served as centres of discussion and so- 
ciability : by the growing Importance of newspapers. 
In whh'h the news of the day was of less Interest than 
the witty essays of Addison and Steele; by the fac- 
tional fights of Whigs and Tories that followed the 
Introtiuctlon of govemnient by party. On the whole, 
eighteenth century life was devoid of high aims — 
bishops were politicians, statesmen held power by 
bribes, gentlemen could be polished rakes— and, un- 
aware of their low-th«mghte<i existence, they had a 




cheerful belief that theirs was the best pocMible 

Literature reflected this life. The people of the 
eighteenth century believed without questibn that 
their poetry had reached perfection. Boileau was the 
legislator of the English as well as the French Par- 
nassus, and with Boileau good taste, good sense, pol- 
ish, elegance were the crowning virtues. Clearness, 
good sense, directness are great literary virtues, but 
they are not the greatest virtues of poetry. In the 
conventional, narrow-thoughted, self-sufficient life of 
the age, imagination, lofty sentiment, spiritual fire 
were lost. The theme of literature was limited to 
man the social being, and the supreme treatment, fol- 
lowing the tone of society, was the most deadly of all 
possible modes of creative thought — the satiric. The 
form of poetry likewise reflected the age. Poets found ^ 
in the iambic timed couplet a form of versification I 
that allowed all their virtues to be manifest — polish, S 
symmetry, clarity, the epigrammatic brilliancy In \ 
which satire delights, the formal movement that suited J 
their formal ideals of life. 

The group of writers who dominated the first half 
of the eighteenth century — Addison, Pope, Swift — were 
succeeded by a second group — Goldsmith, Churchill, 
Johnson — who possessed. In the main, the very charac- 
teristics of their predecessors — their restricted sympa- 
thies, their urban tastes, their social tendencies, their 
Ideals of correctness founded on a narrow Interpreta- 
tion of the classics, their limited sense of beauty of 
form, as indicated by the continued reigu of the heroic 
couplet as the orthodox and almost universal mode of 
poetic expression. 

Thus, for a hundred years, song, to use Mr. William 
Watson's words, had wandered down from celestial 
heights, ignobly perfect, barrenly content, — 





"Unfluflhed with ardour and unblanched with awe, 

Her lips in profitless derision curled, 
She saw with dull emotion— if she saw— 

The vision of the glory of the world. 

I The human masque she watched, with dreamless eyes 
In whose clear shallows lurked no troubling shade. 
The stars, unkenned by her, might set and rise. 
Unmarked br her, the daisies bloom and fade." 

But contemporary with these writers — visible, in- 
deed, even in Goldsmith — there are signs of a new 
movement that will bear us on in an ever-rising flood 
to Wordsworth and Coleridge, and the literary awak- 
ening of the end of the century. 

f The latter half of the elghte«itb century was a 
Itlme of transition and enfranchisement. The Seven 
Years' War brought with it the foundation of the 
colonial empire of Great Britain; the growth of 
science evoked theories of life and government — a be- 
lief in human perfectibility and in the corruption of 
the existing social state — that could end only li revo- 
lution ; democracy was vindicated In the United States 
of America ; the rise of Methodism sent a fresh stream 
of moral emotion and philanthropy into church and 
pe<^le; everywhere one saw the spread of Rousseau^ 
ism — subjectivity, individuality, passion for solitude,/ 
for nature, return to simple, primitive human ,^ 
life : — ^all these permeated men's minds, forcing a new \ 
outlook on life, fresh interests, and bold Innovations. - 
As the eighteenth century wore on the classical style 
was felt to be less and less effective as a means of 
poetic expression. Men grew tired of the monotony of 
form and expression In literature. Just as they grew 
tired of formal, urban life and a narrow range of 
feeling and experience. Reaching out for relief from 
the heroic couplet, they resumed old forms of ersifl- 




cation, the blank verse of Milton, the epic stansa of 
SpensM', the ode, the ballad, and the sonnet. In place, 
too, of a narrow horizon of civic life, they lifted up 
their eyej and saw either a glorious past or an en- 
chanting future. The chlvalrlc nges, viewed beneath 
the glamour of Spenser and the new German drama- 
tists; the northern nations, with their ancient myth- 
ology and misty mountain scenery, brought within 
range by Macpherson's Ossian and Oray's Odes; the 
very life of the people, expressed in the traditional 
poetry of England and Scotlaud, and made accessible 
by the publication of numerous collections of b»:Uad.«i ; 
even the supernatural, not unknown to the ballad, but 
specially cultivated by tales of mystery and spectral 
romance transplanted from Germany; the aspects of 
nature, not the cool grotto and trim hedges, but the 
mountain, the storm, the winter landscape*— these 
were the objects filling the new horizon that opened 
to men's minds; and to this fresh world they came, 
with minds Increasingly sensitive. All Europe was 
stirring with new emotion, everywhere Rousseau was 
hailed as the apostle of the feelings and of nature. 
The ecstasies of Goethe's Werther met with "vehement 
acceptance." Tlie Revolutloa In men's minds was in 
progress, passing, before the end of the century, in 
France, into Political Revolution. 

This movement of men's minds towards the pict^ 
uresque past, towa' ^s nature and the supernatural, / 
towards emotion, towards beauty, constitutes the Ro- 7 
mantle Movement, to which, during the ninete«>Dth oen- ] 
tury, we owe oar best literature. ^ 

With the beginning of the full glory of English Ro- 
manticism two names are indissolubly associated — 
Wordsworth and Coleridge. Others prepared the wuy ; 
others revea' d more or less tentatively some of the 
characteristics of the movement. Traces of it may be 






found in TbonuMHi, whose Seaaona were completed in 
1730 ; traces of It may l)e found in Gray, who died in 
1771, and whose Journal in the Lakes displays a spirit 
kindred to that of the poet of Grasmere ; traces of it 
may he found in Bnms, in whom tender feeling and 
passion Join with appreciation of the beauty possible 
in the meanest flower and the humblest life. C!owper, 
the gentlest of poets, was, like Burns, a revolutionist 
in hl<i political leanings and in his liking for the sim- 
plicity of country life ; he, too, felt the thrill of com- 
munion with Nature, and had a heart that went out 
to all weak and helpless creatures. Thomson, Gray, 
Burns, and Cowper, then, all felt the Impulse of a 
new life ; but this new life was first manifested in its 
power in two poets, Wordsworth and Coleridge. 

William Wordsworth was born at Co-kermouth, 
Cumberland, April 7th, 1770, the second son of John 
Wordsworth, attorney-at-Iuw, and of Anne Words- 
worth, daughter of William Cookson, mercer of Pen- 
rith — persons of good yeoman descent and of unpre- 
tentious circumstances. His mother early noted the 
strong character of her son. Of her five children, she 
said, the only one about whose future life she was 
anxious was William ; he would be remarkable eltlier 
for good or for evil, for he was, as he said, "of a stiff, 
moody, and violent temper." His school days were 
si)ent at Cockermouth, Penrith, and Ilawkshead. His") 
childhood truly showed that in him at least the boy 3 
was father to the man. Throughout his youthful 
yeais he had a passion for out-of-door life. Cocker- 
mouth is near the Derwent, that blent 

A murmur with my nurse's song. 
And .... sent a voice 
That flowed along my dreams. 

Bathing in the mill-race, plundering the raven's nest, 
skating, nutting, fishing, such were the golden dayg 



bf happy boyhood ; and the activities of boyhood lived 
(Qfi in the man. Wordsworth, Elizabeth Wordsworth 
says, could cut his name in the ice when quite an 
elderly man. Ilawkshead overlooks the near-by Esth- 
waite lake, and there, in the house of Dame Anne 
Tyson, Wordsworth spent nine happy years until he 
reached the age of seventeen. Th^ Arabian Nights, 
Fielding, Cervantes, Le Sage, and Swift wert h a first 
favourite books. His father interested himself in his 
training, and through his guidance Wordsworth as a 
boy could repeat by heart much of Spenser, Shakspere, 
and Milton. 

But Wordsworth was taught by a greater teacher 
than books. Nature entwined with all his life the 
sights and sounds of a beautiful and varied countiy. 
Before the village of Hawkshead, at a distance of half 
a mile, lies little Estbwaite lake amidst its meadows; 
a league to the east the greater Windermere divides 
Lancashire and Westmoreland ; six miles to the north 
Grasmere and Rydal Mere reflect the shadows of 
Helvellyn ; to the west past Coniston lake and Conis- 
ton Old Man lies the Irish Sea. The distant line of 
mountains, the mists rolling down the valleys, the 
solitary cliffs, the trembling lakes, cascades of moun- 
tain brooks, autumn woods — by these he held 

"Unconscious intercourse with beauty " 

Old as creation." 

It was a "time of rapture," a 
"unfailing recollections" : — 

'seed-time," yielding 

"Ye mountains and ye lakes 
And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 
That dwell among the hills where I was born. 
If In my youth I have teen pure In heart, 
If, mingling with the world, I am content 
With my own modest pleasures, and have lived 
With God and Nature communing, removed 
From little enmities and low desires — 
The gift in yours." 




There was something, too, In the htimble aapeCTS of 
his childhood years at Hawkshead— the cottage In 
which he lived, his frugal fare, the village children 
his companions, the shepherds' huts he visited— to Im- 
press him with an appreciation of the native strength 
of things, and to establish his spirit kindred with that 
of Burns,- 

"Whose light I hailed when first It shone. 

And showed my youth 
How Verse may build p princely throne 
On humble truth." 

On the death of his father In 1783, Wordsworth came 
into the charge of his uncles, who some years later 
sent him to Cambridge. He entered St. John's College 
in October, 1787, and found his simple north-country 
life exchanged for one of "Invitations, suppers, wine 
and fruit." He "sauntered, played, or rioted" with 
his fellow-strdents, taking little interest in the narrow 
range of academic pursuits. However, he read 
classics diligently, studied Italian and the older Eng- 
lish poets— Chaucer, Spenser. Shakspere. and Milton. 
Throughout his college life he was a drgamer, feeling 
he "was not for that hour, nor for that place." Vaca- 
tion released him — once to return to his loved valley 
of Hawkshead and his boyhood's friends and the 
"frank-hearted maids of Cumberland"— now seen with 
clearer but not less loving eye; again to explore the 
valley of the Dove, Eamont, and other dales of York- 
shire and Cumberland; again to traverse on foot 
France, Switzerland, and Northern Italy, seeing, as 
from a distance, the nations awakening to battle in 
the cause of liberty. 

In the first of these vacation rambles, returning 
homeward to Hawkshead at dawn from some frolic, — 

The morning rose. In memorable pomp ... 
Tbe sea lay laughing at a distance; near 




The solid mountatna shone, bright aa the clouda, . . . 

And in the meadowa and the lower grounda 

Was U the aweetneaa of a common dawn— 

Dewa, vapours, and the melodlea of blrda. 

And labourera going forth to till the flelda. 

Ah! need I aay, dear Friend! that to the brim 

My heart was full; I made no vowa, but vowa 

Were then made for me; bond unknown to me 

Waa given, that I ahould be, else ainning greatly, 

A dedicated Spirit. On I walked 

In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. 

Yet thougli lienceforth a dedicated spirit, Words- 
worth was still far from seeing clearl.v the purjiort of 
his dedication. At the cse of ten he had begun to feel 
the charm and power of verse. In the last days of his 
Ilawkshead life he felt the stirrings of poetic compo- 
sition, nis first long poem, An Evening Walk, writ- 
ten In college vacations, preserves his early conscious- 
ness of the natural apiiearances of the Derwent, Gras- 
mere, and Rydal, and shows the spirit of nature mov- 
ing l)elow the literary bondage of Pope. 

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day. 
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. 
Air listens, like the sleeping water, still. 
To catch the spiritual music of the hill. 

Some aspects of life at Cambridge had prompted 
Word^ orth to verse beside Cam and Thames, but be 
left college without a definite future. Some months in 
London, a tour In Wales, then France — France given 
up to all the hopes and aspirations of the dreamers 
of universal liberty and a regenerate humanity. Like 
other young poets of bis time, he watched with beating 
heart the emancipation of human life and spirit in 
the Revolution. 

BlisB was it in that dawn to be alive. 
But to be young was very Heaven! 


For thirteen months Wordsworth saw the Revolution 
in progrem^ a friend of one of Its leaders, an eye-wlt- 
ne«Tlt. atrocities. It was the crisis of his 1 fe. 
When England took part against i>ance, he had a 
"sense of woes to come" and "sorrow for human kind. 
All things seemed to need new Judglng-government. 
precepts, creeds; and the burden of an unintelligible 
world weighed him down utterly. 

Recalled from France at the close of the year 17TO, 
Wordsworth had still the choice of his profession to 
make, ami for neither church nor law could his per- 
turbed spirit find any Uklng. At this Juncture the 
Influence of his sister Dorothy saved him for his real 

She whispered still that brightness would return; 
She m the midst of all. preserved me still 
A poet, made me seek beneath that name. 
And that alone, my office upon earth. 

Wordsworth was never ungrateful to that noblest o 
women In the midst of troubles she never flagged 
m the moments of literary aspiration she was by M 
side, with sympathetic heart and equal mind. 

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
And humljle cares, and delicate fears; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears: 
And love, and thought, and Joy. 

In 1793 he published his flrst volumes. An Evenin 
Walk and Degcriptive Sketches, the latter occuple 
with his experiences among the Alps. Only two cholc 
minds seem to have noticed their appearance— Coli 
ridge apd De Qulncey. "Seldom, If ever," said tl 
former, "was the emergence of an original poet 
genius above the Utirary horizon more egrldently m 


Nature, book*, the geolal ministratioiui of bis alater, 
who won him to "a more refined humanity" and "re- 
gard for common things," gradually brought comiHisure 
to bis mind. The political deeds of Napoleon com- 
pleted the disillusionment of bis early republican 
hopes of the school of Rousseau. Clinging to the good 
as he found it, he I)ecame, as years went past, less and 
less 4^irous of changes for prospective good, and from 
the time of Waterloo he opposed ail the later efforts of 
liberalism, even in the \yeat of causes. 

The publication of Desrriptlvc Sketches was fol- 
lowed by years of uncertainty — Journeyings to and 
fro — In the Isle of Wight, Salisbury Plain, and along 
the Wye to North Wales. One of liis rambles with 
his sister Doro''hy led him from Kendal to Orasmere, 
and from Grasmere to Keswici — "tlic most delightful 
country we have ever seen," she said, lie projected a 
monthly misccliauy, republican but not revolutionary, 
and was completely out of money when his good friend 
Raisley Calvert died, leaving him a legacy of flOO;. 
This was the turning point of his fortune. Inspired 
by his sister, Wordsworth resolved to take up that 
plain life of high poetic thought which was to ri'sult 
in a pure and lasting fame. 

In the autumn of 1795 the brother and sister 
settled in Racedown Lodge, Crewkerne, Dorset, in a 
delightful country, with "charming walks, a good 
garden, and a pleasant home." There Wordsworth 
wrote his Imitations of Juvenal, Salisbury Plain, and 
commenced The Borderers. Henceforth he was dedi- 
cated to poetry. 

Meanwhile, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the son of a 
Devonshire clergyman, had passed through Christ's 
Hospital and Cambridge and various projects for re- 
forming the world, such as Pantisocracy, and had 
finally settled down to matrimony and authorship. He 


wl-re he ek«i ottW poor ug paWlAiDg 

ujoTod to Kflther Stowey. onahtockB, 

to. country of clear brook, nnd ''^^^'j^Jj. ^^, 

June. IW. Coleridge -'*"«^ , \ti7,^SSi to 
HA«.down The two poets read their «»™»*^*?^ "l 
eac^o7her,-C'olerid«e bl« tragedy «'<>•«»*'• J?^ 
Woidaworth hi« tragedy of The B^^'^'-^Z 
^Z friendship of these two men aJ^^^^J, 
]Z meant much for themselves. '"^ ' f ^^^ 
literature. Charmed by the *-«°«'^ "VSh^T^ 
an? the op,K,rt«nlty of being near ^->«fff ' ^°^ 
torth and his sister took up their abode at AKoxden^ 
Tme three miles distant from Stowey uihI two from 

with exactness; but there can be no uu 
in^aglmitlve and V^^''-^^f\'^^'tr^tZ^ 
nature was the ultimate touch »»»«* *J?^rJ,*X 

.orth's genius to ^^ «-* ^Xw^to ht^ o' 
ence, said Wordsworth, found Its way w u 


The bright-eyed Mariner and rueful woe. 
Dld'st utter of the Lady CbristabeL 

The period of companionship and mutual stimulus 
r«t ^su^ was marked by the I>«>^«<^'«» «'j^ 
that we the unmistakable mauifeatations of the pr«- 


enee of that new q>lrit of poetry which wm to donil- 
Rate the flrat half of the centarjr to come. 

in the spring oi. 1796 the two poets planned a pede»> 
tridn to^ to Linton, porpoeing to defray Its coat by a 
Joint compoaltifm. The Ancient Mariner, which after 
diacnasion fell entirely into Coleridge's hands. The 
project of one poem expanded and took form in a vol- 
ante of poems, to which Coleridge contributed a few 
pieces dealing with the supernatural, and Wordsworth 
the main Itody of poems depicting nature and bumble 
life under the modifying colours of the imagination. 
As Coleridge defined Wordsworth's part: "Subjects 
were to be chosen from ordinary life: the characters 
and incidents were such as will be found in every vil- 
lage and its vicinity where there Is a meditative and 
feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them 
when Ihey present themselves." The poems To Mj 
Bitter, Expo$tulation and Reply, The Tablet Turned 
are characteristic of Alfoxden life and Wordsworth's 
new vision of poetry. TLe memorable volume, open- 
ing with The Ancient Mariner and dosing with Tin- 
tern Abbey, was called Lyrical Ballads, and was pub- 
lished in Bristol In 1798. Wordsworth Issued a second 
edition in 1800, which, with other poeuis, contained 
Nuttino and Michael. 

Its Immediate Influenc-e was very slight The 
Monihly Review considered The Anvient Mariner the 
strangest cock and bull story, a rhapsody of unin- 
telligible wildness and Incoherence, though admitting 
e^gjiiake poetical touches; In general, It called upon 
the author of the volume to write on more elevated 
subjects and in a more cheerful disposition. Cottle 
parted with most of his five hundred copies at a loss, 
and on going out of business returned the copyright 
to Wordsworth as valueless. De Qulncey and John 
Wilson were perhaps alone In re ognizing the value 



of the Tolnme. Originality, It has been said, must 
create the taste by which it is to be appreciated, and 
it was some years before a taste for the new poetry 
was created. 

At Alfoxden, then. Lyrical Balladft was written, and 
there, too. The Borderers was flnlshpd. The latter was 
Wordsworth's one effort at dram* Mc c imposition. It 
was rejected by the Covent Gart'en Theatre ; concern- 
ing which circumstance the poet remarked: 

"The mpvlng accident is not my trade; 

To freeze the blood I have no ready arts; 
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 

To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts." 

The Rural Cottage, which became. Inter, the first Iwok 
of the Excursion, was of a different quality — a sympa- 
thetic poem of nature and human life in their interre- 
lation » —Wordsworth's especial sphere. Lamb and 
Ilazlitt, who came down to visit Coleridge, were taken 
of course to see Wordsworth. Ilazlitt, hearing Cole- 
ridge read some of his friend's poems, "felt the sense 
of a new style and a new spirit of poetry come over 

On the publication of Lyrical Ballads, Coleridge and 
Wordsworth were enabled through the generosity of 
the Wedgwoods, sons of the great potter, to carry out 
a long-cherished project of a pilgrimage to Germany, 
then the shrine of literary devotion. Coleridge parted 
company with the Wordsworths on reaching the Con- 
tinent, passing on to Ratzeburg and Gottlngen, while 
the latter burietl themselves In Goslar, on the edge of 
the Ilurtz Forest. Wordsworth got little pleasure 
m German society, literature, climate, or tobacco, 
t/rlven back ui)on himself, he t<K)lc inspiration from 
the memories of llawksliead and Alfo.\den. and wrote 
some of his best iweiun— Influence of Natural Objects, 



tiutting. The Poet's Epitaph, The Fountain, Two April 
Mornings, Ruth, and the five |)oeni8 grouped about the 
name of Lucy. There, too, to depict the history of bis 
mind and of bis dedication to poetry, he began The 
Prelude. His stay in Germany ended in July, 1799. 
In the autumn of that year the brother and sister 
m^de excursions through Cumberland and Westmore- 
land, and were led by the natural beauty of those 
shires tn take up their abode, December, 1799, in Gras- 
mere, Westmoreland, in Dove Cottage, at the eastern 
extremity of the village, known as Town-end. 


Gray has described the Grasmere scenery and De 
Quincey the Wordsworth cottage— a little white cot- 
tage, sheltered in trees, overhung by the lofty moun- 
tain ascending behind it ; in front, the quiet crystal of 
Grasmere water* and the stretching meadow-vale In 
which lies the village with its embowered houses; all 
about, the encircling eternal hills, and in their bosom, 
in those days, quiet peace. 

During 1800 the poet wrote Poems on the Naming of 
Places, The Brothers, The Pet Lamb, and that impas- 
sioned narrative, breathing the spirit of the Cumber- 

•The view of the lake Is now shut off by other build- 



land moantains, Michael. In 1802 be paid a flying visit 
to France, tbe memorialK of wbicti are tbe group of 
.sonnets tbat includes those written at Calais. Tbe 
same year be married Mary Hutcbinson, n schoolmate 
of bis childhood, a wife worthy of L husband and 
his sister and of the poem She was m Phantom of De- 
light, depicting tbat perfect woman nobly planned. 

In 1807 several volumes of bis poems were pub- 
lished, embracing an almost unequalled body of lyric 


verse, fruits of seven yours iwrfected by domestic ties, 
meditation of human nature, human events, and 
human lives, and study of the meaning and beauty of 
nature In flower and bird, mountain and stream. Of 
these volumes are some noble sonnets dealing with 
contemporary life. To fhe Daisy, The Solitary Reaper, 
Ode to Duty, Elegiac Stanzas, Character of a Happy 
Warrior, Personal Talk, O Nightingale! thou surely 
art, and many other perfect lyrics. 



In Dove Cottage until 1808, then for a few yeara at 
Allan Qank, a mile away, and the Grasniere parson- 
age; Anally, in a large house, Rydal Mount, overlook- 
ing Rydal Mere, nearest neighbour to Grasmere, 
Wordsworth lived his long life. Friends were about 
him. Coleridge was at times In Keswick, fifteen miles 
away (they loved to walk such distances In those 
days), where Southey also was living; De Qulncey 
took the Dove Cottage when Wordsworth moved to 
Allan Bank ; "Christopher North" was at Elleray, nine 
miles distant; Dr. Arnold built himself a house at 
Ambleside, an hour's walk from Rydal Mount. Occa- 

kydal wateb and bydal mount. 
( wobdswobth's home, 1813-1850.) 

sionally the iwet left his home for long trips to the 
Continent or to Scotland and Wales, steadily compos- 
ing under the Influences of suggestive scenes. To his 
tour in 1803 belong the poems referring to Burns. 
Other excursions gave rise to other groups of poems, 
Fmbllshed as Memorials of a Tour in Scotland (1814), 
Memorials of a Tour on the Continent (1820), Yarrow 
Revisited (1835), and Memorials of a Tour in Italy 
(1837). is sonnets, many of which are gems of 
lyrical b iuty unsurpassed, are chiefly in three series, 
Ecclesiastical Sketches, On the River Duddon, and 

I ! 




Sonneta Dedicated to Liberty. Of his otber chief 
works, Peter Bell, written in 1798, was not published 
till 1819; the Excursion, composed in 1795-1814, was 
published in 1814; The White Doe of Rylstone, writ- 
ten in 1807, was issued in 1815; while The Prelude, 
begun in 1799 and finished in 1805, was printed only 
after his death. In general, in his later work, in al- 
most all that is subsequent to 1808, Wordsworth failed 
to retain the imagination and passion of the earlier 
period; he grew more and more didactic and ecclesi- 
astic, and the Joy of poetry took flight from bis verse. 
About 1830 the years of neglect and ridicule, which 
Wordsworth had borne with serene mind anU unfalter- 


ing trust, changed for years of honour and fame. Ox- 
ford bestowed on him a doctor's degree; the nation, 
with one voice, on the death of Southey in 1843, 
crowned him with the laurel, "e- the Just due of the 
first of living poets" ; and the best minds of England, 
such as Arnold, George Eliot, Mill, acknowledged the 
strength and blessedness of his Infiuence. When he 
died. April 23rd, 1850, the greatest English poet of> 
this century, greatest in original force, sincerity, and i 
beauty of thought, greatest as the interpretative voice ^ 
of Nature, greatest In power of transfiguring human 
life with the glory of imagination, had passed away 



^rom tlir> world and from Grasmere that guards and 
the Rotba that murmurs beside his grave. 

The best personal sketch of the poet Is that of 
Thomas Carlyle, as Wordsworth appeared about 1840 : 
"He talked well In his way ; with veracity, easy 
brevity, and force ; as a wise tradesman would of his 
tools and workshop, and as no unwise one could. Ills 
voice was good, frank, and sonorous, though prac- 
tically clear, distinct and forcible, rather than melo- 
dious ; the tone of him businesslike, sedately confident, 
no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about being courteous ; 
a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain 
breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran, and on all 
he said and did. You would have said he was a 
usually taciturn man, glad to unlock himself, to aud 
enc-e sympathetic and Intelligent, when such ofTt 
itself. His face bore marks of much, not a\\\ 
peaceful, meditation; the look of it not bland or b. 
nevolent, so much as clob., impregnable, and hard ; a 
man multa tacere loquive paratus, in a world where 
he had experienced no lack of contradictions as he 
strode along! The eyes were not brilliant, but they 
had a quiet clearness ; there was enough of brow, and 
well-shaped; rather too much of cheek ('horse-face.' 
I have heard satirists say), face of a squarish shaiH* 
and decidedly longish, as I think the head itself was 
(its length, going horizontal) ; he was large-boned, 
lean, but still firm-' '*. tall and strong-looking when 
he stood ; a right f d steel-grey figure, a veracious 

strength looking t. a him which > . -iht have suited 
one of those old sttel-grey Margrafs .... whom 
Henry the Fowler set ui> to ward the marches." 

The genius of Wordsworth has had no better critic 
in its weaknesses and its strength than Coleridge. The 
prominent defects of his poems, according to Coleridge, 
are: — First, the Inconstancy of his style, its sudden 



transitions from lines of peculiar felicity to a stylej 
not only unimpassluned but undistinguished; second, y 
a not infrequent matter-of-factnes8 in certain poems— I 
laborious minuteness, insertion of accidental circum- \ 
stances; third, an undue p edilection for the dramatic \ 
form In certain poems; fourth, occasional prolixity, I 
repetition, arising from an intensity of feeling dispro- / 
portionate to the value of the objects described ; fifth, 
thoughts and images too great for the subject— a sort 
of mental bombast. 

Against these defects Coleridge places very great 
excellences :— First, an austere purity of language, a 
perfect appropriateness of the words to the meaning ; 
st-cond, a correspondent weight and sanity of the ; 
thought and sentiments— won, not from books, but /" 
from the poet's own meditative observation ; thtiil, the \ 
sinewy strength and originality of single lines and 
passages ; the frequent curioaa fcHcitaa of his diction ; 
fourth, the perfect truth of nature In his Images and 
descriptions as taken immediately from nature; fifth, 
a meditative pathos, a union of deep and subtle 
thought with sensibility, a sympathy with man as 
man. the sympathy of a contemplator from whose view 
no difference of rank conceals the sameness of nature ; 
no injuries of wind or weather, of toll, or even of 
Ignorance, wholly disguise the human face divine; 
lastly, and pre-eminently, the gift of imagination in i 
the highest sense of the word. In fancy not always i 
graceful ; in imaginative power, he stands nearest of ■ 
all modern writers to Shakspere and Milton ; and yet 
In a kind i)erfectly unl>orrowed. He does indeed to all 
thoughts and to all objects — 

Add the gleam, 
The lluht that never was on sea or land. 
The consecration, and the poet's dream. 





[1772-183*. J 

nn^?3"!l*^~?.'*'^™'*'«^ "'^"•ly of Coleridee in founded 

life -H D tI^I / V "Podern accounte of Coleridge's 
«7 V^ .. ?^» ^- "• t/a>ne, Life of Coleridae in "rj«wf 

tYr Ro™ T'"^ '^'^ P"**'*^™ °^ Colerid^^'.l'LtionT 
the Romantic movement occupies Alois BrandliS T 
Co^geandthe English Bamlufic School CriuJm of 

o. ytitmirp, Studies tn Poe<ry and PhUomvhy • A P 
Swmburn^, Eamys and Studks ; Gabriel^Siin Ea 

The best editions of Coleridge's poems are the Globe 
AlHini 1 r P^^^^ Campbell, Macmillan's), one vol • 
Aldme ed. (mtr. and notes by T. Ashe Geor^ R^ll «\Ih 
Sons) two vols., Household Wl. (ed iVCnTtnd Lr^J 

Riohard Garnett, Scribner's), one vol ^ ^ 

J. Ll^Hane^ S°^^** '-^ ^""'"^ ^"y^*"- ^^'^^e, by 

Samukt. Tatlok CoLKRiixJK wa8 a genius of a very high 
order. H.s is one of the first names in modern English 
poetiry; he is the greatest of English tmnslators ; and he 
stands in the front rank among English literary critics and 
philosophic and religious thinkers. Like Shakspere. he was 
• myriad-minded." 

Coleridge was bom October 2l8t, 1772, at Ottery St 
Mary. Devonshire. He was the youngest son of a kindly 



pedantic u^. ^^- '^^'^''^'^^^'T^yt^ 
J^e. on whom '^^Z'T'.^Z^ P. and meW 
had already been bestowed, ^^f^^"' His life had no 

childhood, and none of the Bporttoi ^^ 

a world of reading ''"^'^^ ^ ' '' « he himseU said, 
motion to life in thought "f -;'^^°^^' J^„ old. When 
He began writing poetry before he ^" ^^T ^o passed 
tl.e3hof his father broke h,s home U.«, 'u^S^'<£^ 

^ Christ's H«j.taU lonc^n. ^^^^^^^^^-^ 
clever boy, cast into a °»"''' "^'^^P; and yellow stock - 
^HooL Clad ;'^^»"-^tt;h^d;j:^oi; other boys 

underfed. overflogg«l. There^e ^^^^^^^^ ^1 
ridge made his mark as a ^^^^J^^^^^^al acquaint- 

'''^T::''lT:^Xi^^X--^ Milton, a just 
ance with English poetry m hhaK. pe 

taste for the truth, logic, and »-f»«"y!" j.**"]^^ Many 
Headmaster Boyer and his cane haunted his d™«r-^ l 
iieauuwB •'. , .. >,ecau9evou are such an ugly teiiow. 

an extra lash he had, ^'''^ ^^ unsvmi«thetic, t ^ an 
The discipline was severe and the li^u^ym^ . ^^^^ 

extentthat the boy was once tempted to^^ ^^^^ 

shoemaking from a friendly cobbler. Yet the 
not restn'in the spirit- 
On the leaden roof 
Of that wide edifice, thy school and home. 

Before to ««. «tw« y»" »'^ "^ •««""T ^°'"" '" 


And Cere*' golden flcldH -.-the tultry Hnd 
Meeta it with hrow uplift, and ttay hia rtaping. 

In 1788 be wrote Timt, Real and Imaginary (see Appendix), 
which exhibits his abstract and philosophic bent of mind 
even at this early period. Charles Lamb, who entered the 
school in 1782, records the general admiration of his fellows 
fwa boy who was "logician, metaphysician, bard" :— "How 
have I seen," says the genial Elia, "the casual passer 
throu'' h the cloister stand still, entranced with admiration 
(while he weighed the disproporticn between the speech 
and garb of the young Mirandula\ to hear thee unfold in 
thy deep and sweet intonations the myBteries of lambUcus 
or Plotinus (for even in thoHC years thou waxedst not pale 
at such philosophic drafts), or re<iting Homer in the Greek, 
or Pindar, while the walls of old Grey Friars re-echoed with 
the accents of the innpired charity boy. "^ 

The last yeors of his school days are marked by. various 
passions,— for Voltoiro, for medicine (his brother was a 
student in a London hospital), for Miss Evans, a neighbour- 
ing dressmaker, and for t\r. poetry of William Lisle Bowles. 
Bowles by his sympathy w t x nature and melancholy m-isic 
of verse was a mild forerunner of romantic poetry, and in- 
fluenced not Coleridge only, but Wordsworth and Southey 
as M'elL 

At last Christ's Hospital, with its hard life, the tremend- 
ous Boyer, bathing excursions, holidays spent at the Tower 
of London, or shivering before print-shop windows -blue 
coat, leather girdle, yellow stockings-was at an end. 
Coleridge left with impai. ed health and with "a wide, wild 
wilderness of useless unurrangc' ook knowledge and book 
thoughts." In February, 1791, ne entered the university 
of Cambridge, just as Wordsworth left college. 

Coleridge's university life was not a success. He won a 
medal for a Greek ode, it is true, but what pleased him most 

' .SCO lAmb'a " Christ's Hospital," in Eaaayii of Elia. 



I to fill his rooma with students enthosiMtio orw tha grMt 
times that were then dawning glorioanly aimn the worUL 
The liberty of man, the doctrines of Priestly, Frend, God- 
win, the new Rooiantio poetry, that general renaissance of 
the human spirit that characterized the Revolution — such 
ideas fired young men's minds, and were the themes of the 
rapt monologue of the undergraduate Coleridge. Suddenly, 
no one knows why, the enthusiast disappeared. When he 
was discovered, or when hif Latinity betrayed him, he was 
Silas Titus Comberback, trooper in the awkward squad of 
Elliott's Light Dragoons. Absent-minded, unpractical, 
poetic, Coleridge was the most awkward in the awkward 
■quad, yet when he returned to Cambridge he set out amidst 
the cheers of his old comrades. 

The mo«' '"--tht chapter in Coleridge's university 

life can ba ' isocracy. A vacation ramble gave 

him the comp. ndahip of Southey, then the most 

heterodox and re^ pirit in Oxford. At Bristol the 

two friends met, and their scheme to bring about a regen- 
erate Mrorld was debated, planned, and — not carried out. 
They would drop the shackles of convention and prejudice, 
they pined for a lodge in the vast wilderness. Coleridge's 
old friend Plotinus had planned a perfect city, Platonopolis, 
in Campania. They would rear a new Eden in America. 
There ^ould be no privileges, no laws, — all brotherly love, 
equality, p«ntisocracy. It was to rise in Pennsylvania, on the 
banks of the Susquehanna — charming word. The Miss 
Frickers were willing to go, and as Lovell had married one, 
and Southey was about to marry another, Coleridge con- 
cluded it was but proper to engage himself to a tiiird. 
Burnet proposed to a fourth, but she concluded to wuit. 
Wives, however, were easier to procure than money, anil 
they needed £2,000 to realize an Eden in America. Cottle, 
the warm-hearted bookseller, offered Coleridge thirty guin- 
eas for his poems, and made the same offer to Southey. The 
Fantisocrate immediately married ; but Southey, having a 


temptiDg iMMition oiTered him in Portag»l, departed for 
Lisbon ; Lovell left for a longer jonmey ; while Coleridge, 
with the mists of Pantinocracy vanishing in the past, settled 
down in a £5-a-year cottage at Clevedon, near Bristol, to 
enjoy his married life; — "send me," he wrote to Cottle, 
"a riddle slice, a candle-box, two glames for the wash-hand 
stand, one dustpan, one small tin tea-kettle, one pair of 
candlesticks, a Bible, a keg of porter." 

A yew later, on the last day of 1796, he was in a £7-a- 
year cottage at Nether Stowey. Hu wrote for i>«riodical8, 
preached, lectured, tutored. He even founded a new maga- 
zine called the Watchman, published in the interests of 
Truth, which served chiefly to start the editor's fire. "La I 
int" said the maid, " why, it's only Watchmen /" 

At Nether Stowey C''leridge enjoyed the companionship 
and stimulus of Wordsworth, who was living in the neigh- 
bourhood, first near Crewkerne, then at Alfoxden. The 
nature and results of this association have I)een spoken of 
already. (See Introduction, Wordsworth, pp. xix-xxii.) 
Those years at Nether Stowey (1797 to 1799) were the 
great years of Coleridge's poetry. They were the years of 
The AncieiU Mariner, The Ode to France, Kubla Khan, and 
the first part of Chriatahel. The Ancient Mariner was the first 
and most important poem in LyriceU Ballads, published 

Before the Lyrical Ballads were actually issued, Coleridge 
had sought occupation as a Unitarian preacher in Shrews- 
bury. There the Wedgwoods, sons of the great potter, 
came to his aid, gavu him an annuity, and enabled the poet 
to carry out a long-cherished project of pilgrimage to Ger- 
many. Through the same benevolent source, Wordsworth 
and his sister drew the means of accompanying^ him. 

Coleridge parted company with the Woi.Vworths on 
their arrival in Germany, passed on to Ratzeburg, where for 
five months he studied German ; then went o Gbttingen to 
attend lectures in {^losophy and metaphysics. He re- 



turned to London in November, 1779, where, in six weeks, he 
produced his translation of Schiller's WalUngtein. It is the 
greatest translation in English, but Cterman literature was 
still of doubtful market value, and the copies sold as waste 
paper. From translating he passed to journalism, in which 
he was decidedly successful ; then threw up flattering 
oflFers, and left London for Greta Hall, Keswick, twelve 
miles from Grasmere. 

From this time, ifrith trifling exceptions, Coleridge ceased 
to write poetry. The Ode to Dejection in 1802, and a few 
pathetic lyrics of the later years of his life, such as Youlh 
aiid Age, Work without Hope, which are for the moat part 
laments over lost opportunities and talents ill-spent, virtu- 
ally complete his poetic career. --. 

Coleridge arrived in Keswick in 1800. Four years later 
he left England for Malta, wrecked in body and spirit. Ex- 
posure in a Scottish outing brought on rheumatism. To 
relieve this he had recourse to a mysterious black drop, 
which he learnt later, when under its power, consisted 
chiefly of opium, and like other great Englishmen of his 
time he became a slave to the drug. He drifted about from 
London to Malta, to Sicily, to Rome, back to England, and 

Ah ! piteous Bight was it to see this man, 

When he came back to us a withered flower. 

Or, like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 

Down would he sit ; and without strength and power 

Look at the common grass from hour to hour. 

Coleridge went back to London in 1806 to write for The 
Courier. He lectured likewise at the Royal Institution, 
till his health and his audience failed him. lu 1809 he 
started The Friend, which was mismanaged and after 
twenty-seven numbers collapsed. In 181 1-? 2 he lectured 
again with wonderful interpretative insight on Shakspere 
and Milton. He had a gleam of success when his old 
tragedy of Oaorio was acted, but his new Zapolyta waa 



refused by the players. In 1816 Coleridge put himself under 
the care of Dr. Gillman, of the (irove, Highgate, London, and 
slowly won his way back from the depths of opium bondage 
to liberty and health. 

Those Highgate days were essentially days of philosophy. 
The printed works of this period, however, are only a small 
[jart of the fructifying influence which Coleridge, chiefly by 
his conversation, exercised on contemporary thought. The 
records of his hfe and literary opinions he gathered into his 
Bioffraphia LUeraria, 1817. With the publication of 
Aidato Reflection, 1825, the world began to apprecuate this 
neglected genius, and the SJige of Highgate became the 
oracle of men like Maurice, Hallam, and even Carlyle. In 
November, 1833, feeling his end was approaching, he wrote 
his epitaph : — 

Stop, Christian Passer-by '.—Stop, child of liod, 
And read, with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he.— 
O, lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C. ; 
That he who many a year with toil of breath 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 
Mercy for praise— to be forgiven for fame- 
He'd and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same. 

On the 25th of July, 1834, he died, and was buried at 

We owe to Wordsworth's sister, Dorothy, the following 
picture, which represents Coleridge about June, 1707, in 
the days of The Ode to France and The Ancient Mariner :— 

"He is a wonderful man. His conversation teems with 
soul, mind, and spirit. At first I thought him very plain, 
that is, about three minutes ; he is pale, thin, has a wide 
mouth, thick lips, and not very good teeth, longish, loose- 
growing half curiing rough Uack hair. But if you hear him 
speak for five minutes, you think no more of them. His eye 
is large and full, and not very dark, but grey, such an eye 
as would receive from a heavy soul the dullest expression ; 
but it speaks every emotion of his animated mind, it has 



more of ' the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling' than I ever 
witnessed. He has dark eyebrows, and an overhanging 

Wordsworth's description, 

A noticeable man with large grey eye^, 
is proverbial. 

Coleridge was a genius, as v a: said, of the first order. 
And yet he was a man of ideas .a' her than of works. His 
hand was rarely equal to his vi- o i. His n; ad was a va8t~ 
seething and germinating chaos, where ideas chased one. 
(^nother in endless whirl. Of ordered, practical life and 
sustained, well-directed activity he was incapable. From 
the first there was in him a certain lethargy of will that 
deferred and procrastinated, till the pathetic words of 
Macbeth were ever on his lips : — 

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. 

His life was strewn with wreckage. His poems are a 
gallery of unfinished sketches, tormenting us with a beauty 
only half realized ; yet, as Sir Walter Scotfc said, like the 
Torso of antiquity, they defy any of his poetical brethren to 
complete them. 

Coleridge's poetry is virtually confined to the six years 
from 1796, the year of the beginning of The Ancient Marmer 
to 1802, the year of the Ode to Dejection. 

Six years from sixty saved I Yet kindling skies 
Own them a beacon to onr centnries. 

— RoHsetti, Three Bngliah Poets. 

Why Coleridge with his great gift produced so little is a 
problem of his genius. It may be due to the necessary 
transiency of poetical inspiration. " Poetry," said B^ 
Jonson, "is not born every day nor with every man. " It vu^y 
be due to the growth of Coleridge's philosof^ic power, whksh 
preyed upon his creative power in poetry. It was due moat 
likely to the physical breaking-down of the poet through 
his use of opium. The winter of 1801-02 marks his suc- 
cumbing to the drug, and in 1802 he writes in ill-health : — 


But now afllictionB bow me down to earth. 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; 

But oh! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth. 

My shaping spirit of imagination. 

—Ode to Dejection. 

In these lines Coleridge singles out the essential charac- 
teristic of his genius in poetry— his "shaping spirit of 
imi^nation. " 

Coleridge did not choose his themes as Wordsworth did, 
from the normal world. The Ancient Ma----.', looked at 
with the eye of reason, is sheer insanity 't Khan is 

oriental dream-vision, Christabd, sorcery r antment. 

These are the themes of the imaginative worl ^i glamour and 
romance. These supernatural themes allowed Coleridge to 
escape into a visionary world built by his " shaping spirit 
of imagination." And his treatment of his chosen 
theme was characteristic. He saw his theme in the 
light of his own mind, which was sensitive, humane, 
philosophic, poetic, delighting in beauty in the wild and 
strange. Yet while he creates a wonder world, he fills it 
with the beauty of nature and the finest truth of humanity. 
Coleridge asks only poetical credence for his work. In 
The Ancient Mariner he does not ask us to believe the story 
directly, on his own authority. The story is told as if by a 
Mariner, against a background of everyday life— the wed- 
ding-feast. We are present at the telling in the person of 
the average man, " one of three," and the fascination that 
works upon him, holds us ; we yield to the spell and give 
poetic credence to the increasing wonders of tlie narrative 
that follows. 

The voyage begins simply and picturesquely ; the story 
displays in ever-changing panorama the pictura^. 'e aspects 
of sea and ship ; the ioe-fields, night in the Tropics, the tropi- 
cal calm, the weird beauty of the phosphorescent ocean ; the 
horrors of dying by thirst. Thus we are brought to the 
state where the marvellous may be imagined and the suf ■ 


fering human brain believe it real, — the spectre ship. Death 
and Death in-life, th? trance, the vision, the home-i-eturn 
with the angel-visitan*- 

There is •- '; onij ..le story of thtj wonderful scenes of the 
voyage, there is a pervading spiritual reality. The Mariner 
makes in his inner life the journey of the sinful, suffering 
soul. That is the greater voyage — his soul's journey 
through hardness of heart, sin, alienation from his fellows 
and God, suffering, penance, exptatiation, and pardon. His 
sin was an act of wanton cruelty — the shooting of an unof- 
fending I ;rd in God's universe. He was saved by what he 
lacked when he sinned — by sympathy, love, reverence for all 
created life. Thus the awakening of the soul through sin 
and suffering to love and sympathy, is the implicit human 
truth of this weird tale, expressed in the lines : — 

Farewell, farewell I but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest I 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 
He prayeth betit, who loveth best 
All thinsa both ffreat and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all. 

The story of The Ancient Mariner, to the eye of reason, is, 
as was said, the story of a half insane sailor, but, by sheer 
effort of a poet's imagination, !t rises into regions of subtlest 
feeling and thought ; scene aiter scene flashes past in ever- 
changing beauty ; the whole range of human emotion is 
gone through ; it is the world and human life in miniature, 
of sin and moral recovery, repentance and expiation, and as 
it rolls before our eyes, an undercurrent of tender feeling 
charms the heart, and an undertone of music, with cadences 
subtle as of a hidden brook in sleeping woods, takes cap- 
tive the ear. 

ChriHahel, even more than The Ancient Mariner, deals 
with the world of imagination. It is a story of sorcery with 
the setting of feudaUsm, told so as 1» produce the atmos- 




phere of glamour and romance. Like The Anctent Ma»ver 
S^ere is implicit in the 8t«ry the finest truth of hu-nan hfe 
and feeling-the struggle of the innocent maiden strong in 
her purity with the evil sorceress fascinating in her Iwauty. 
In Kuhla« Coleridge went farthest into the realm of 
the remote and the wonderful-to create pure romantic 
vision of the Eastern Khan and his stately pleasure-dome, 
.. his minicle of rare device." The glamour is wrought by 
the romantic music of the verse, by which the i^et builds 
its walls with music and so builds forever. 

With Coleridge, imagination, which during the eighteenth 
century lived with clip* wings, once more gets eagle-like 
I«wer and freedom. Coleridge is the poet of imagination 
movin r in the world of the weird and supernatural ; he is 
the p<^t of gUmour and " wizard twilight," gifted with a 
mi-nc music of verse. He dwells in the world of wonder 
and romance, because there his imagination can build at 
will, but he fills that imaginative world with a fine human 
content by his touches of natural beauty and suggestions of J 
spiritual truth. 



At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for 

three years: 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the siler ce of morning the- song of the Bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her ? She 5 

A mountain ascending, a vision of trcvi; 

Bright volumes of vapour through I.otubury 

And a river Hows on through the vale of Cheap- 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; i 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's. 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they 

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. 
And the colors have all passed away from her eyes! 



It is the first mild day of Marcii: 
Each minute sweeter than before 
The redbreast sings from tt.» '11 larch 
That stands besidt, our doot. 

There is a blessing in the air, 
Which seems a sense of jo}- to yield 
To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
And grass in the green field. 

My sister 1 ('tis a wish of mine) 
Now that our morning meal is done, 
Make haste, your morning task resign; 
Come forth and feel the sun. 

Edward will come with you— and, pray, 
Put on with speed your woodland dress; 
And bring no book: lor this one day 
We'll give to idleness. 

No joyless forms shall regulate 
Our living calendar: 
We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
The opening of the year. 

Ivove, now a universal birth, 
From heart to heart is stealing, 
From earth to man, from man to earth : 
— It is the hour of feeling. 





One moment now may give us more 
Than years ol toiling reason : 
0«r minds shall drink at every pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some sJent laws our hearts may make, 
Which they will long obey : 
We for the year to come may take 
Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that rolls 
About, below, above, 
We'll frame the measure of our souls: 
They shall be tuned to love. 

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, 
With speed put on your woodland dress; 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We'll give to idleness. 





•'Why, William, on that old grey stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day, 
Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
And dream your time away ? 

Where are your books ?— that light bequeathed 
To Beings else forlorn and blind! 

t fl 


Vp\ up! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 

You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you; 
As if you were her first-born birth, 
And none had lived before you!" 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. 
When life was sweet, I knew not why. 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
And thus I made reply: 

"The eye — it cannot choose but see; 
We cannot bid the ear be still; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be. 
Against, or with our will. 

Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things for ever speaking, 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking ? 

— Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
Conversing as I may, 
I sit upon this old grey stone, 
And dream my time away." 




1^-:^.. - ..,;-.,..^.^-^-.^^i..^iJ^-'^ „,-...-.'. J- ^,--, 




Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 
Or surely you'll grow double: 
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A. freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 
Come, hear the woodland linnet. 
How sweet his music! on my life, 
There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 
He, too, is no mean preacher: 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 



•i I - 1 ffciiMnaa«»ri 


One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evU and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
Our meddling intellect 
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 

Close up those barren leaves; 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 




Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! 

Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought! 

And giv'st to forms and images a breath 

And everlasting motion! not in vain, 

By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 

Of childhood did'st thou intertwine for me 

The passions that build up our human soul; 

Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man; 



But with high objects, with enduring things, 

With life and nature; purifying thus 10 

The elements of feeling and of thought. 

And sanctifying by such discipline 

Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 

A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me IS 

With stinted kindness. In November days, 
When vapours rolling down the valleys made 
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods 
At noon; and mid the calm of summer nights, 
When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 90 

Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine: 
Mine was it in the fields both day and night. 
And by the waters, all the summer long. 
And in the frosty season, when the sun it 

Was set, and, visible for many a mile 
The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, 
I heeded not the summons: happy time 
It was indeed for all of us; for me 
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 90 

The village-clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. — All shod with steel 
We his.sed along the polished ice, in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 95 



And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 

The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. 

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 

And not a voice was idle: with the din 

Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; IB 

The leafless trees and every icy crsg 

Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hilh 

Into the tumult sent an alien sound 

Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars, 

Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 4S 

The orange sky of evening died away 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 
To cut across the reflex of a star; sa 

Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still M 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round! ao 

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 




It seems a day — 

(I speak of one from many singled out) 

One of those heavenly days that cannot die; 

When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 

I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 5 

With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung, 

A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps 

Tow'rd the far-distant wood, a Figure quaint. 

Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds. 

Which for that service had been husbanded, lo 

By exhortation -.' i Trugal Dame — 

Motley accoutre ;i of power to smile 

AX thorns, and ' ^s, and brambles,— and, in 

More rugged than need was ! O'er pathless rocks, 
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, is 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
Of devastation; but the hazels rose 
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 20 

A virgin scene! — A little while I stood. 
Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint, 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 



The banquet; — or beneath the trees I sate 
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played ; 
A temper known to those, who, after long 
And weary exp-tctation, have been blest 
With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
The violets of five seasons re-appear 
And fade, tmseen by any human eye; 
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, 
And — ^with my cheek on one of those green stones 
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees. 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep — 
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 
• In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things. 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones. 
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, 

with crash 
And merciless ravage: and the shady nook 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower. 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
Their quiet being: and, unless I now 
Confound my present feeling with the past; 
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 







Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.— 
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades 
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand 
Touch— for there is a spirit in the woods. 




If from the public way you turn your steps 
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright path 
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook 
The moxmtains have all opened out themselves. 
And made a hidden valley of their own. 
No habitation can be seen; but they 
Who journey thither find themselves alone 
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
That overhead are sailing in. the sky. 
It is in truth an utter solitude; 
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
But for one object which you might pass by, 
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones: 





And to that simple object appertains 

A story— unenriched with stran^ events, 

Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 

Or for the snmmer shade. It was the first 

Of those domestic tales that spake to me 

Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 

Whom I already loved: — not verily 

For their uwn sakes, but for the fields and hilU 

Where was their occupation and abode. 

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 

Careless of books, yet having felt the power 

Of Nature, by the gentle agency. 

Of natural objects, led me on to feel 

For passions that were not my own, and think 

(At random and imperfectly indeed) 

On man, the heart of man, and human life. 

Therefore, although it be a history 

Homely and rude, I will relate the same 

For the delight of a few natural hearts; 

And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 

Of youthful Poets, who among these lulls 

Will be my second self when I am gone. 


Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 



Intense, «nd frugal, apt for all affairs, tf 

And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 

And watchful more than ordinary men. 

Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, 

Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes. 

When others heeded not, he heard the Sc " ,h go 

Make subterraneous music, like the noise 

Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 

The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 

Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 

"The winds are now devismg work for me!" S5 

And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 

The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 

Up to the mountains: he had been alone 

Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 

That came to him, and left him, on the heights. « 

So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 

That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 

Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 65 

The common air; the hills, which with vigorous step 

He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 

So many incidents upon his mind 

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 

Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 

Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts. 




The certainty of honorable gain; 

Those fields, those hills,— what could they less ?— 

had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him n 

A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been passed in singleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old— 
Though younger than himself full twenty years. so 
She was a woman of a stirring life, 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; 
That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest 
It was because the other was at work. 85 

The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old,— in shepherd's phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, w 

With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, 
The one of an inestimable worth. 
Made all their household. I may truly say. 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When day was gone, » 

And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come home, even then. 
Their labour did not cease; unless when all 





Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, 
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100 
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their 

Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
And his old Father both betook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ »M 

Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling by the chimney's edge, no 
That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With a huge and black projection overbrowed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; 
An aged utensil, which had performed itf 

Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it bum — and late. 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
And left the coupie neither gay perhaps no 

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
Living a life of eager industry. 
And now, when I^uke had reached his eighteenth 



There by the lif ht of this old lamp they sate, 
Father and Son, while late into the night us 

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, 
Making the cottage through the silent hours 
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
And was a public symbol of the life >* 

The thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south. 
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
And westward t6 the village near the lake; 135 

And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
Both old and young, was named The Evening 

Thus living on through such a length of years, 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
. Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
I«ess from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — 
Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man. 
Brings hope with it, and forward-lookitig thoughts, 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 





By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
Kxceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
Albeit of a stem un'snding mind, 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool. 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
Undef the large old oak, that near his door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade. 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun. 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 
With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the 







And when by Heaven's good gcaxt the boy grew 
A healthy Lad, and carried in his check 
Two steady roses that were five year.s old; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice ci> lao 

With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, 
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185 

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; 
And, to his office prematurely called, 
There stood the uvchin, as you will divine, 
Something between a hindrance and a help; 
And for this cause, not always, I believe, M 

Receiving from his Father hire of praise; * 
Though nought was left undone which staff, or 

Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights, ige 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary waysj 
He with his Father daily went, and the> 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Roy th«rc came 200 
Feelings and emanations— things which were 



Ufht to the sun and music to ^he wind: 

And that the old Man's heart seetned born again ? 

Thus in his father's s ght the Boy grew up: 
And now, when he had reached his i ghteenth year, m 
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household lived 
From day to day, to Miti iH's ear there came 
Di.^tressful tidings. Long before tht time 
Of which I f^peak, the Shepherd h id been bound MO 
In surety ft r his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means; 
But imforeseer misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest up<>n him; and old Michael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 21* 

A grievous penalty , but little less 
Than half his substance. This unlookt- d-for claim, 
At the first hearing, for a momi • took 
More hope otit of his life than he supposed 
That any old man ever could have lost. 220 

As soon as he had armed him * with stren'^th 
To lo : his s ouble in the fat j, it seemed 
The biiepherd's sole reiuge to sell dt once 
A por ioti I his patrimonial fields. 
Such w.T^ his first resolve; he thought again, 22f 

And his ^ ^art failed him. "Isabel," said he. 
Two evenings after he had heard the news, 



"I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours 
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I c )uld not lie quiet in my grave. 

Our lot 

IS a hard lot: the sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil man 
That w^as, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us; and if he were not false, 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; — but 
"^were better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our I^uke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman— he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trad©— and Luke to him shall go, 
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay, 
What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 
What can be gained ?" 








At this the old man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, 
He was a patish-boy — at the church ioox aao 

They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence 
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares ; 
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, ws 

Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich. 
And left estates and monies to the poor, 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, floored 270 
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
These thoughts, and many others of Uke sort. 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, 
And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! this scheme 276 
These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
— We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger; — ^but this hope is a good hope. 
—Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 280 
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 
—If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 


Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 285 
Was restless mom and night, and all day long 
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work; for, when she lay 90 

By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 
Heard him, how he was trc ibled in his sleep : 
And when they rose at mormig she could see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day a^. noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 3W 
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away. 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 900 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work; 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length 
The expected letter from their kinsma.a came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 



To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; 
Nor was there at that time on English land 315 

A prouder heart that Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
••He shall depart to-moixow." To this word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
Which, if at such short notice he should go, SU 

Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
She gave consent, and Michael was at «tase. 

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ohyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard 32s 

The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: .330 
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 
And thus the old Man spake to him: — "My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full hetu't 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth 335 

And fdl thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 


Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good 
When thou art from me, even if I should touch 

On things thou canst not know of. Attt:r thou sto 

First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 

To new-bom infants — thou didst sleep away 

Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 

Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, 

And still I loved thee with increasing love. 345 

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 

Then when I heard thee by our own fireside 

First uttering, without words, a natural tune; 

While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 

Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed 3S0 

And in the open fields my life was passed 
Ana on the mountains; else I think that thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 
But we were plajtnates, Luke : among these hills. 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young ass 
Have played together, nor with me didst thou 
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words 
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, 
And said, "Nay, do not take it so — I see aao 

That these are things of which I need not speak. 
— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
A kind and a good Father: and herein 
I but repay a gift which I myself 



Received at others' hands; for, though now old ass 

Beyond the common life of man, I still 

Remember them who loved me in my youth. 

Both of them sleep together: here they lived, 

As all their Forefathers had done; and when 

At length their time was come, they were n 3t loth 370 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 

I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: 

But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields were burthened when they came to me; 375 

Till 1 was forty years of age, not more 

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 

I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, 

— And till these three weeks past the land was free. 

It looks as if it never could endure W 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 

That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man paused; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood 385 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: 
"This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may live 390 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale; — do thou thy part; 


I will do mine. — I will begin again 
With many tasks that were resigned to thee: 
Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 3M 

Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone, 
Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee. Boy! 
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
With many hopes; it should be so — yes — yes — wo 
I knew that thou could'st never have a wish 
To leave me, lyuke: thou hast been bound to me 
Only by links of love: when thou art gone. 
What will be left to us!— But, I forget 
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, «« 

As I requested; and hereafter, I<uke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil men 
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts. 
And Ck>d will strengthen thee: amid all fear 4io 

And all temptations, Luke, I pray that thou 
May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well- 
When thou return's!, thou in this place wilt see <15 
A work which is not here: a covenant 
'Twill be between us; — but, whatever fate 
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 




The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped <■> 

And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 
The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart 
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; 
And to the house together they returned. le 

—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming 

Ere the night fell :— with morrow's dawn the Boy 
Began his journey, and when he had reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face; 
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, oo 
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
That followed him till he was out of sight. 

A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 435 

Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were through- 
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
So, many months passed on; and once again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work mo 

With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
He to that valley took his way, and there 


Wrouf Ift at the Sheep-fold. Meanwhile Ltike began 
To slacken in his duty; and, at length, MS 

He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses: ignominy and shame 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 400 

'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart: 
I have conversed with more than one who well 
Remember the old Man, and what he was 
Years after he heard this heavy news. 4ss 

His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, 
And listened to the wind; and, as before, 
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, mo 

And for the land, his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell Irom titt>>. to time 
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
The. pity which was then in every heart 405 

For the old Man— and 'tis believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 470 


•^•-— -IjiTtiagl-., .||.-. ■ - 


Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 

The length of full seven years, from time to time, 

He at the bmlding of this Sheep-fold wrought, 

And left the work unfinished when he died. 

Three years, or little more, did Isabel ITS 

Survive her husband: at her death the estate 

Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 

The Cottage which was named The Evening Star 

Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the 

On which it stood; great changes have been 480 

In all the neighbourhood: — yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door; and the remains 
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. S^'V 


Behold her, single in the field. 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Reaping and singing by herself: 
Stop here, or gently pass! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
O listen! for llie Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

tt W0BD8W0RTH. 

No Nightingale did ever chaunt 

More welcome notes to weary bands 

Of travellers in some shady haunt, 

Among Arabian sands: 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ?— 

Perhaps the plaintive niunbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-ofi things, 

And battles long ago: 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 

That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singmg ui her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending;— 
I listened, motionless, and still; 
And, as I mourned up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 






Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown; 
This Child I to myself will take, 
She shall be mine, and I will make • 

A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, W 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn 

That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 15 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; ao 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motion of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 



The stars of midnight shall be dear « 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty bom of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. » 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

Wliile she and I together live S 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake— The work was done- 
How soon icy Lucy's race was run! 
She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 40 

The memory of what has been, 
And never more will be. 


Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 



To the last point ol vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring warbler ! that love-prompted strain, 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud priviJige! io s;ng 
Ml independent of the ieafv spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 
A privacy of glorious ligli' is thine; 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
Of harmony, with instinct more divme: 
T3rpe of the wise who soar, but never roam; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 



Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest simshine rv)und me spread 

Of spring's uncloudeil weather, 
In this sequestered nook how sv tt 
To sit upon my orchard-seat! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 

My last year's friends together. 

Once have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest: 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
In joy of voice and pinion! 



Thou, Linnet! in thy green array 
Presiding Spirit here to-day 
Dost lead the revels of the May ; 

And this is thy dominion. 
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
Make all one band of paramours. 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 

Art sole in thy emploj'ment; 
A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair ; 

Thyself thy own enjojrment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him perched in ecstasies 

Yet seeming still to hover ; 
There! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 

That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A Brother of the dancing leaves; 
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 

Pours forth his song in gushes; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 

While fluttering in the bushes. 



blithe New-comer I I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or bat a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold snout I hear; 
From hil' to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listened to, that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still longed for, never seen. 



And I can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, tiU 1 do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place; 
That is fit home for Thee! 



She was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
h\om May-tirae and the cheerful Dawn; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman, too! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgiii-liberty , 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 




A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, ki. «s, tears, and smiles. » 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of an emgel-Ught. ^ 






Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, 
Mindless of its just honours; with this key 
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; s 

With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 

His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, 

It cheered mild Spenstr, called from Faery-land lo 

To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp 

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few! 



SEPT. 3, 1802. 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
DuU would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 
This City now doth like a garment wear 

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still! 







Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 
Star of my Country! — on the ]u>rizon's brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest, 

Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, '^ 

Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st 

Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest 

In thy iresh beaaty. There! that dusky spot 
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies. 10 

Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, 

One life, one glory! — 1, with aumy a fear 
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. 
Among men who do not love her, linger here. 



O Friend! I know not which way I must look 

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 

To think that now our lile is only drest 

For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 

Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook s 
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: 
The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
No grandeur now in nature or in book 

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 

This is idolatry: and these we adore: W 

Plain living and high thinking are no more: 

The homely beauty of the gc^d old cause 
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence. 
And pure religion breathing household laws. 





LONDON, 1802. 

Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour. 
England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 5 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 

Oh I raise us up, return to us again; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 10 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
In cheerful godliness; tinl yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 
Hftth flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood," 

Roused though it be full ofteu to a mood 
Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 
That this tuoat famous Stream in bogs and sands 
Should perish; and to evil and to good 

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : 
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 

That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold 
Which Milton held.— In everything we are sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 




When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 

I had, my Country !— am I to be blamed ? 
Now when- 1 think of thee, and what thou art, 
Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find 
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 
And I by my affection was beguiled: 

What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
Among the many movements of his mind, 
Felt lot thee as a lover or a child 1 




Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice: 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 

There came a Tyrant, and vith holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly 

striven : 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft: 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
J nd Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee! 




1653 East Moin Street 

Rochester. New York 14609 USA 

(716) 482 - 0300 - Phone 

(716) 288 -5989 -Fox 




A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 6 
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; 
Ajid the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, 
And could not win thee. Sleep! by any stealth: lo 
So do not let me wear to-night away: 

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 

N i^ 





Brook ! whose society the poet seeks, 
Intent his wasted spirits to renew; 
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, 

And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks; 5 
If wish were mine some type of thee to view, 
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do 
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, 

Channels for tears ; no Naiad shouldst thou be,— 
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs: lo 
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 

With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, 
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good; 
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 



Tax not the roya! Saint with vain expense, 
With iU-matched aims the Architect who planned— 
Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
Of white-robed Scholars only— this immense 

And glorious Work of fine intelligence! a 

Give all thou canst; high HeaVen rejects the lore 
Of nicely-calculated less or moie; 
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, lo 
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 

Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die; 
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
That they were bom for immortality. 




They dreamt uot of a perishable home 
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here; 
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam; 

Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 5 
Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath 
Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path 
Lead to that younger I'ile, whose sky-like dome 

Hath typified by reach of daring art 
Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest, 
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread 

As now, when She hath also seen her breast 
Filled with mementos, satiate with its part 
Of grateful England's overfl'~wing Dead. 




Bright Flower, whose home is everywhere! 

Bold in maternal Nature :s care, 

And all the long year through the heir 

Of joy or sorrow; 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 

The forest thorough ! 

Is it that Man is soon deprest ? 

A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest. 

Does little on liis memory rest, 

Or on his reason. 
And Thou would'st teach him how to find 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hope for times that are unkind 

And every season ? 

Ihou wander'st the wide world about, 
Unth ;cked by pride or scrupulous doubt. 
With friends to greet thee, or without, 

Yet pleased and willing; 
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call. 
And all things suffering from all. 
Thy function apostolical 

In peace fulfilling. 





Stea-n Daughter of the Voice of God! 
Duty! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 
Thou who art victory and law s 

When empty terrors overawe; 
From vain temptations dost set free; 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them; who, in love and trutl., iq 

Where no misgi\-ing is, rclv 
"Upon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; 
Who dc thy work, and know it not: 
Oh! if through confidence misplaced ig 

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around 
^hem cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light. 
And joy its own security. SO 

And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed; 
Yet seeJ' thy firm support, according to their need. 


■ I, loving freedom^ and untried: 
No sport of every random gnst, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 
Or strong compuncticHi in me wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control; 
But in the quietness of thought : 
Me this unchartered freedom tires; 
I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stem Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face: 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are 
fresh and strong. 


To humbler functions, awful Power! 
I call thee: I myself commend M 

Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacriiice; 

The confidence ot reason give; as 

And in the Ught of ti-uth thy Bondman let me live! 



I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: 
I saw thee every day; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a flassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! 
So like, so very like, was day to day! 
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there; 
It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep; 
No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 



All I then,— if mine had been the Painter's hand, 
To express what then . saw; and add the gleam, 
The light that never was, on sea or land, W 

The consecration, and the Poet's dream; 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile, 

Amid a world how different >m thiaf 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 

On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bKas. „ 

Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine 
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;— 
Of aU the sunbeams that did ever shine 
The very sweetest had to thee been given. 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, ^ 

Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
No motion but the moving tide, « breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
Such Picture would I at that time have made: 
And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. 

So once it would have been,— 'tis so no more; 
I have submitted to a new control: 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 35 

A deep distress hath humanised my Sc'l. 



Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 
The feeUng of my loss will ne'er be old; 
this, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been 

the Friend, 
If he had lived, of H'm whom I deplore, 
This work of ': I blame not, but commend; 
This sea in ang.., and that dismal shore, 

'tis a passionate Work— yet wise and weU, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageai try of fear! 

And this huge Castle, standing here subUme, 

1 love to see the look wif -vhich it braves. 
Cased in the unfeeKng armo r of old time, 
The Ughtning, the fierce wind, and trampling 


Farewell, farewell the heart that Uves alone. 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, n 

Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.— 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. « 






The Minstrels played their Christmas tune 
To-night beneath my cottage eaves; 
While, smitten by a lolty moon, 
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
Gave back a rich and dazzlin^r sheen. 
That overpowered their natural green. 

Through hill and valley every breeze 

Had sunk to rest with folded wings: 

Keen was the air, bu<: cc-iM not freeze, 

Nor check, the mt'-.ic i>. Jie strings; 

So stout and hardy were the band 

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand I 

And who but listened ?— till was paid 
Respect to every Inmate's claim; 
The greeting given, the music played. 
In honour of each household name. 
Duly pronounced with lusty call. 
And "Merry Christmas" wished to alll 

O Brother! 1 revere the choice 

That took thee from thy native hills; 

And it is given thee to rejoice: 


Though public care full often tills 
(Heaven only witness of the toil) 
A barren and ungrateful soil. 

Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 

Hadst heard this never-faiUng rite; 

And seen on other fares shine 

A true revival of the light 

Which Nature and these rustic Poixera, 

In simple childhood, spread through uursi 

For pleasure hath not ceased to waf . 
On these expected annual rounds ; 
Uliether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
Call forth the unelaborate sounds, 
Or they are offered at the door 
That guards the lowliest of the poor. 

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 
To hear — and sink again to sleep! 
Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 
By blazing fire, the still suspense 
Of self-complacent innocence; 

The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; 

And some unbidden tears that rise 

For names once heard, and heard no more; 






Tears brightened by the serenade 
For infant in the cradle laid. 

Ahl not for emerald fields alone, 

With ambient streams more pure and bright flO 

Than fabled Cytherea's zone 

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, 

Is to my heart of hearts endeared 

The ground where we were bom and reared! 

Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, « 

Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 

Hemnants of love whose modest sense 

Thus into narrow room withdraws; 

Hail, Usages of pristine mould, 

A«d ye, that guard them, Mountains old! « 

Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought 

That slights this passion, or condemns; 

If thee fond Fancy ever brought 

From the proud margin of the Thames, 

And Lambeth's venerable towers, ss 

To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 

Yes, they can make, who fail to find, 

Short leisure even in busiest days; 

Moments, to cast a look behind, 

And profit by those kindly rays 70 

That through the clouds do sometimes steal, 

And all the far-off past reveal. 

8EPTEMBBR, 1819. 

Hence, while the imperial City's din 
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear^ 
A pleased attention I may win 
To a^tations less severe, 
That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
But fill the hollow vale with joyf 



The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
Are hung, as if with golden shields. 

Bright trophies of the sun! 
lyike a fair sister of the sky. 
Unruffled doth the blue" lake lie, 

The mountains looking on. 

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grovt, 
Albeit uninspired by love. 

By love untaught to ring, 
May well afiord to moctal ear 
An impulse more profoimdly dear 

Than music of the Spring. 

For that from turbulence and heat 
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 

In nature's struggling frame. 
Some region of impatient life; 
And jealousy, and quivering strife, 

Therein a portion claim. 


This, tWs is holy;— while I hear 
These vespers of another jrear, 

This h}nnti of thanks and praise, 
My spirit seems to mount above 
The anxieties of human love, 

And earth's precarious days. 

But list!— though winter storms be nigh 
Unchecked is that soft harmony : 

There lives Who can provide 
Tor all His creatures ; and in Him, 
Even like the radiant Seraphim, 

These choristers confide. 


Departing summer hath assumed 
An aspect tenderly illumed, 

The gentlest look of spring; 
That calls from yonder leafy shade 
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 

A timely caroling. 

No faint and hesitating trill, 
Such tribute as to winter chill 

The lonely redbreast pays I 
Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 
From social warblers gathering in 

Their harvest of sweet lays. 


Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 

And yellow on the bough: — M 

Fall, rosy garlands, from my head! 
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 

Around a younger brow! 

Yet will I temperately rejoice: 

Wide is the range and free the choice n 

Of undiscordant themes; 
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
Not less than vernal ecstasies, 

And passion's feverish dreams. 

For deathless powers to verse belong. 
And they like Demi-gods are strong 

On whom the Muses smile ; 
But some their function have disclaimed. 
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 

To enervate and defile. 


Not such the initiatory strains 
Committed to the silent plains 

In Britain's earliest dawn: 
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
While all too-daringly the veil 

Of nature was withdrawn! 




Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
When the Kve chords Alc«ns smote, 

Inflamed by sense of wrong; 
Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
Broke threateningly in sparkles dire 

Of fierce vindictive song. 

And not unhallowed was the page 
By winged love ascribed, to assuage 

The pangs of vain pursuit; 
l/ove listening whUe the I^esbian Maid 
With finest touch of passion swayed 

Her own -^olian lute. 

O ye who patiently explore 
The wreck of Herculanean lore, 

What rapture r could ye seize 
Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
One precious, tender-hearted scroll 

Of pure Simonides. 

That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
Of poesy; a bursting forth 

Of genius from the dust: 
What Horace gloried to behold, 
What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 

Can haughty Time be just ! 








Faciu credo, plores eaae Nataru Invlslblles qaun vlsibtles In 
rerom nnlveraltate. Bed horum omnlom funlllam qal» nobia enambit, 
et Trades et cogrnatlones et discrimlna et sinffnloram mnneraf Quid 
agantr tpm loca habitant? Haram rerom notltlam semper amblvl^ 
Ingeninm humunum, nnnquam attlgit Juvat, Intc ea, non dlfflteor 
qaandoqne lii aulmo. tanquam in tabulA, tmOorls et melloris mutidl 
imaffinem oontemplari: ne mens assuefacta hodleme vlt« minntils m 
contrahat nimU. et tota subeidat in piuUlaa co(jitatione«. Sed veritatl 
interea InviKliandum eat, modoaque aervandoa, at cerU ab f ncertto, diem 
a Docte, diatliiflraamus.— T. Bcbket. Amcbjkol. Phil, p^ m. 


It is an anciflnt Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of tht«e. 

"By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 

The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, s 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set ; 
May'st hear the merry din." 

An andent 
three aral- 
lants bidden 
to a wedding- 
feast, and 

.7 ;1 



• . 

The wed- 
ding (.'ueat la 
by the eye ot 
the old seft- 
ttring niMi, 
•tralned to 
hear his 


He holds him with his skinny hand, 
• ' There was a ship, " quoth he. lo 

"Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! " 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye— 
The wedding-guest stood still, 
And listens like a three years' child : u 

The Mariner nath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared. 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill. 

Below the lighthouse top. 

S'iaho'S'?hJ "^^^ «"° <^»°i® 'iP »Po»^ the left, 
«i?h^ Out of the sea came he! 

wind anlMr ^°d ^^ shone bright, and on the right 

weather, till ,„ ^ , . , ** 

It reached Went down into the sea. 
the line. 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon— 

The wedding-guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 


The bride hath paced into the hall. 
Bed as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast, 
Tet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on the ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

And now vhe storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong * 
He struck with his overtaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping mast and dipping prow, 46 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head. 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 

And southward aye we fled. sc 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The io© was all between. 

The wed- 
hearetu the 
bridal mosic ; 
» bat the ma- 
"" riner oon- 

The ship 
drawn by a 
storm toward 
the south 

55 The land of 
ice and of 
where no 
UviuK thinff 
was to be 

Till « great 
ckUed the 
the nnnw-tog 
Mid wua re- 
ceived with 
great Joy 


The ice wm here, the ioe was then, 

The ice wm all around : «> 

It cracked and growled, and roaivd and 

Like noises in a swoond ! 

At length did crons an albatross. 

Through the fog it came ; 

As if it had been a Christian soul, • 

We bailed it in Gkxl's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 

And round and round it flew. 

The ice did split with a ; 

Th-^'helmsman steered us through I ie 

And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 75 

It perched for vespers nine ; 
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
Olimmered the white moon-shina 

Tgejanel«i.t ' < Gh^i save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
Mli^^^' ^ ^™™ *l»e fiends, that plague thee thus !— m 
««Md omen? Why look'st thou so ? "—With my orossbow 
I shot the albatross. 

Andlol the 
proveth a 
bird of good 
omen, and 
the ship as 
it retorned 
through fog 
and floating 



Trb 8un now rose upon the right : 
Out of the aea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 



And the good south wind stQl blew behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow, 

Nor any day foi 'ood or play 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 90 

And I had dqpe ui hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe : 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! 

His ship- 
mates cry 
oat affalnst 
the ancient 
Mariner for 
IcillinR the 
bird of good 


Nor dim nor red, like Gk)d's own head, 

The glorious sun uprist : 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 


• den 
cleared off 
they Justify 
the same, 
and thus 
make them- 
selves ac- 
complices in 
the crime. 



tliiiiM; tiM 
tiM Paelflc 
Oe«Mi, Mid 
Mils north- 
want, even 
the Line. 





The fair bneM blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free ; 
We were the first that ever buret los 

Into that silent 

And the al- 
bntroes be- 
gins to be 

Down dropt the breeie, the sails dropt down, 

Twas sad as sad could be ; 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the stsa I no 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody sun, at noon, 
Bight up above the mast did stand. 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, every where, 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, every where, 
^lor any drop to drink. 



The very deep did rot : O Christ I 
'Ihat ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 



Aboat, about, in reel and roat 

The death'firea danced at night ; 

The water, like a witch'v oils. 

Burnt green and blue and white. vm 

And some in droams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

A spirit bad 
them : one of 
the 111 visible 
neither de- 
parted aoult 
nor anirols ; 

i.lS^iJ^^'l2?;ii^^^i?.".S3!l** ^*y ■"" "^'^ nnmeroiw, an'd th-re 
U no oUmate or element wltboat one or more. 

And every tongue, through utter droufc-'.t us 

Was withered at the root ; 

We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 

Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the albatross 
About my neck was hung. 

The ship- 
mates, in 
their sore 
140 would fain 
throw the 
whole gnilt 
on the 
Mariner: in 
sifrn whereof 
they banf; 
the dead sea- 
bird round 
his neck. 




The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a 
siini in the 
element afar 


There passed a weary c;^->e. Each throat 

Was parched, and gl tzed ea.-h eya. 

A weary time ! a weary time ! i4ft 

How glazed each weary eye, 

When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck. 

And then it seemed a mist ; i.% 

It moved and moved, and took at last 

A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 

And still it neared and neared : 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, iS6 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

approach ^'^^ throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

to be a ship"? We could nor laugh nor wail ; 

and at a dear mi i. , i , ,, , . 

ransom he Inrough utter drought all dumb we stood ! 

freeth his 

speech from I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, ino 

the Iwnds of ' 

thirst. And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips bakeci, 
A^ape they heard me c«U : 


Graraercy ! they for joy did grin, 

And all at once their breath drew in, les 

As they were drinking all. 

See ! see I (I cried) she tacks no more ! 

Hither to work us weal ; 

Without a breeze, without a tide^ 

She steadies with upright keel ! 170 

The western wave was all a-flame. 

The day was well nigh done ! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 175 

Betwixt us and the sun. 

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. in 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears I 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

Are those her ribs through which the sun iss 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that woman all her crew ? 
Is that » Death ? and are there two ? 
Is Death that woman's mate ? 

A flash of 

And horror 
follows. For 
can it be a 
ship that 
comes on- 
ward withoat 
wind or tide ? 

It seemeth 
him but the 
skeleton of a 

And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the 
seating sun. 
The spectre- 
wcman and 
her death- 
mate, and no 
other on 
board the 



Like vessel, 
like crew I 

Death and 
Death have 
diced for the 
ship's crew, 
and she (the 
Utter) win- 
neth the 

within the 
courts of the 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, wo 

Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-mare Life-in-^^ ith was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 195 

And the twain were casting dice ; 
"The game is done ! I've won ! I've won ! " 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out ; 
At one stride comes the dark ; mo 

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

otther^SF ^^ l'st«°ed and looked sideways up f 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! J05 

The stars were dim, and thick the night. 

The steerman's face by his lan^p gleamed 
white ; 

From the sails the dew did drip 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned moon, with one bright star no 

Within the nether tip. 

One after 

One after one, by the star-dogged moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 


Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. ns 

Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one hy one. 

The souls did from their hodies fly,— 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it passed me by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 

R<8 ship- 
mates drop 

!>» ButLlfe-in- 
Death begin! 
her work on 
the ancient 


"I FBAR thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou are long, and lank, and brown. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. ' 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand, so brown."— 
Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

The wed- 
ding fruext 
»>, feareth that 
a Hptrlt is 
talking to 


> Wot the last two lines of this stanza, I om indebted 
tc ir. Wordsworth. It was on a delightfai walk ftwm 
K .her Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in 
tl.e autumn of 1797, that this poem was planned, and In 
part composed." 

But the an- 
cient Mari- 
ner ussureth 
him of his 
bodily life, 
and proceed- 
eth to relate 
his horrible 




Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea I 
And never a seint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

Se'SiJres '^^ ^'"'y ™®°' 8° beautiful I 
of the calm. ^^ they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on ; and so did I. 

th^ theT'" ^ looted upon the rotting sea, 

MmlSy And drew my eyes away; 

I looked upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men lay. 

He dead. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



But the 
curse liveth 
fur him in 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
And the balls like pulses beat ; 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 
sky 2fio 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot uor reek did they : 


The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

2U the eye of 
the dead 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! m 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving moon went up the sky, 

A J 1-3.1.., In his lonell- 

And no where did abide : ness and 

tixednesa he 
Softly she was going up. yearneth to- 

*^' wards the 

And a star or two beside— JoumeylnK 

moon, and 
the stars that 

?^^"?."**!'7"°"^?'1'^*''^ every where the sky belonM tothem. 
S^„iSi*h*™ *'*P°J.'J'k**I:*"'*' *"^ *•'«*'■ "»"^e country and their own 
natural homes, wh«ch they enter unannounced, as lords that are cer- 
tainly expected and yet there Is a silent Joy at their arrival. 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
The charm' '' -vater burned alway 
A still ai u) red. 


Beyond the shado\/ of the ship, 

1 watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 

And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Bv the llRht 
of the moon 
he beholdeth 
God's crea- 
tures of t\m 
Rreat calm. 



Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

i^'thefr*"'^ O ^aPPy iiving things ! no tongue 
happlne... rpheir beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware : 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 


He blesseth 
them in his 

The wU be- The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 


Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole 1 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sloep from heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

^^^^y ""' "^^ ^'"^ buckets on the deck, 
Mother, the That had so long remained, 


I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 


And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light— almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
It did not come anear ; 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out. 
The wan stars danced between. 

ancient Ma- 
riner Is re- 

«Mi freshed witi 

*" rain. 


He henroth 
sounds am) 
3-10 Beeth strniiKe 
sitfhtR and 
In the sky 
and the ele- 


And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down from one black 
cloud ; 820 

The moon was at its edge. 



The thick black cloud was cleft, and stUl 

The moon was at its side : 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag, sss 

A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reached the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 

The bodies 
of the ship's 
crew are 
inspired, and 

moves on. Beneath the lightning and tha moon 


The dead men gave a groan. 

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 885 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do ; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— 

We were a ghastly crew. 340 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body :: id I pulled at one rope. 
But he said nought to me. 

Bnt not by 

the souls of 

the men, not x» 1 ,, ., ,. 

by demons i36 calm, thou wedding-gnest ; 

' I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " 



"fwas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again. 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

For when it f^ ' wned— they dropped their arms, 

And clustered round the mast ; S5i 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 

And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
Then darted to the sun ; S66 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the sky-lark sing ; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, aao 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all Instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute ; 

And now it is an angel's song, *«( 

That makes the heavens be mut& 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

la the leafy month of June, no 

uf earth or 
middle air, 
but by a 
blessed troop 
of angelic 
rolrlu, sent 
down by the 
invocation of 
the iraardian 



The lone- 
some aptiit 
the ship M 
far M the 
line, in obe- 
dience to the 
troop, but 



That to the sleeping wood* all night 
Singeth a quiet tone. 

Till noon we quietly saibd on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe : 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 375 

Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 

From the land of mist and snow. 

The spirit slid : and it was he 

That made the ship to go. sso 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 

And the ship stood still also. 

The sun, right up above the mast. 

Had fixed her to the ocean : 

But in a minute she 'gan stir, sss 

With a short uneasy motion 

Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go 

8he made a sudden bound ; aso 

It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 

SwFs'fel How long in that same fit I lay, 

the invirible ^ ^*ve not to declare ; 

inhabitants n ,. ,- . 

of the -put ere my living lite returned, m^ 


I heard, and in my aool discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

"Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man <* 
By Him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low «» 

The harmless Albatross. 

"The spirit who bideth by himself 

In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 

Who shot him with his bow." «e 

The other was a softer voice, 

As 3oft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, "The man hath penance done. 

And pe:< \nce more will do." 

element, take 
part In his 
wronv ; and 
two of them 
relate, one 
to the other, 
that penance 
heavy for 
the ancient 
hath been 
accorded to 
the Polar 
•pirit, who 



But tell me, tell me ! speak again, no 

Thy feof t resp' ■« renewing— 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing? 


Still as a slave before his lord, 

The ocean hath nc blast ; <15 


His great bright cgre mott sikntly 
Up to the moon is cast — 

If he msy know which w«y to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
Hee, brother, see ! how grsciotisly 
She looketh down on him. 



h»th be«n 
rMt Into • 
triinee; for 
the •iiKelie 
power CMM- 
-'-*• the veatel 


mUfT TOIOl. 

Bat why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? 

ntooin> Tcncs. 
The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the Mariner's trance is abated. 


The aoper- 

I woke, and we were sailing on 490 

tM uhe As in a gentle weather : 
•wakes! and Twas night; calm night, the moon was high ; 
be«riM anew. The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck 
For a chamel-dungeon fitter : 
All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
That in the moon did glitter. 



The paoff, the onne, with which th^ died, 
Had never passed away : 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440 

Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapt : once mote 

I viewed the ocean irreen, ' 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 445 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 

I>oth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on. 

And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 46o 

Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 

Anally ez]d- 


It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangdy with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcou.'og. 

Swiftly, swiftly flevi the ship. 
Yet she sailed softly too : 



Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 

Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 

The light-house top I see ? 

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk? 

And the an- 
cient Maii- 

ethhSl'nitive ^^ ^^i" ™i°e own countree? 

The anffelic 
spirits leave 
the dead 

And appear 
in their own 
forma of 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 
O let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light 
Till rising from the same. 
Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 






I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 

And, by the holy rood ! 

A man all light, a seraph-man, 4m 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 

It was a heavenly sight ! 

They stood as signals to the land 

Each one a lovely light ; Mr 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars 
I heard the pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third— I heard his voice : 
It is the hermit good ! 





He singeth lotid his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 
He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
The Albatross's blood. 


PABT vn. 

The hermit 
of the wood, 

This hennit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 


He kneels at mom, and noon, and 

He hath a cushion plump : 6iio 

It is the moss that whoUy hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff -boat neared : I heard them talk, 
" Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair, sus 
That signal made but now ? " 

the ship 
with wonder. 

' ' Strange, by my faith ! " the hermit said — 
"And they answered not our cheer ! 
The planks look warped ! and see those sails, 
How thin they are and sere ! Mo 


I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along ; 

When the ivy -tod is heavy with snow, 6*5 

A.nd the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 

That eats the f' - If 's young." 

" Dear Lord ! ii a fiendish look— 

(The pilot made reply) 
I am a-feared " — ' ' Push on, push on ! " 
Said the hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread : 
It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 



The ship 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 55o The ancient 
•IT, . -i , , Mariner is 

Which sky and oceai. note, saved in the 

r-i T_ V . n^ pilot's boat. 

Jjike one that bath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. lu 



Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that thn hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips— the pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes. 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go. 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

" Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, "full plain I see. 

The devil knows how to row," 



And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 
The hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
And scarcely he could stand. 


The ancient 
the hermit 
to shrieve 
him; and 
the penance 
of lij^ falls 
on him. 

" O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! " 
The hermit crossed his brow. 676 

"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou?" 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woful agony, 


Which forced me to hepin my tale ; 580 

And then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour 

That agony returns : 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me hums. ssr 

I pans, like night, from land to land ; 

I have strange power of speech ; 

The mo., ent that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me : 

To him my tale I teach. flw 

What loud uproar hursts from that door I 

The wedding-guests are there : 

But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are : 

And hark the little vesper bell, flK 

Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

O wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

And ever 
uul anon 
his foture 
life and 
agony con- 
Btraineth him 
to travel 
from land to 


O sweeter than the marriaere-feait, 
"Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company !— 



Ami ttj teach, 
by his own 
love and re- 
verence to 
all things 
that God 
made and 


To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray. 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone : and now the wedding-guest 
Turned from the brid^;room'8 door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned. 
And is of sense forlorn : 
k. sadder and a wiser man, 
Hie rose the morrow mom 








Text. The text of this and other poems of Words- 
worth is Knight's reprint of Wordsworth's final text of 
1849. Yarioua readings of other editions are given, 
partly from collations, chiefly from Knight's and 
Dowden's list of variants. 

Composition and publication. " This arose out of my 
observation of the affecting music of these birds hanging 
in this way in the London streets during the freshness 
and stillness of tiio spring morning." — Fenwick Note.' 

It was written in 1797, and published in 1800. 

Title. The poem in the editions prior to 1815 has the 
title, Poor Susan. Tlie first edition, 1800-01, had an 
additional final stanza, wisely omitted in 1802. Why ? 

Poor Outcast! return— to receive thee once more 
The house of thy Father will open Its door. 
And tliou once again, in thy plain russet gown, 
May'st near the thrush sing from a tree of its own. 

Theme. In this and the eleven poems that follow we 
have a series developing Wordsworth's philosophy of the 
relation of nature and human life. This philosophy 
should be studied in detail in each new poem. The 
present poem illustrates Wordsworth's teaching, — that 
nature can enrich the memory with scenes of ever 
recurring joy. 

These beauteous forms 
Through a long absence have not been to me 
As Is a landscape to a blind man's eye ; 
But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness sensations sweet, 

1 Woidsworth dictated many memoranda concerning his poems 
to Miss Fenwick i«i '.he year 1843. These are referred to here as 
Fenwick Note. 



Felt in the blood and felt along the heart 
And poiwintf uven unto my purer mind. 
With tranquil refitoration. 

—Linta compoKed above Tintem Abbey. 

N'Jte the three parte of the psychological experience. 
The ush suddenly heard in the silent early morning 
rectt.ta to a country-bred girl the associated circumstances 
of her life in the codntry. In the rush of memory, her 
surroundings— even the city streets— transform them- 
selves to that early landscape, iiut the real presses in, 
and the happy illusion is fled beyond recall 

Pkffej. 11. 1, 7, 8. Wood Street, Lothbury, Cheapside. 
The references suggest the oenire of London- Wood 
Street running between Cheapside, which is the chief 
approach from the west to the Bank of England, the 
Royal Exchange, etc., and Gresham Street, a continua- 
tion of Lothbury, the street parallel to Cheaptade on the 
north side of the Bank. 

1.2.— Hang:!. Till 1820, There's. 

a thrush. Also called the throstle or mavis, "a l^rge, 
handsome bird, with a speckled plumage of yellowish or 
reddish-brown or white." The song is most noticeable 
in early morning and late evening— " a flute-like melody 
. . . full of rich cadence, and clear and deep. " Cf. 

Harkt 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest 
By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; 
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain 
Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, 
And seems, as more incited, still more blest 

—Wordsworth, Sonnet. Hark I 'Ha the Thrush. 



Compoaition and publication. Thib poem was com- 
posed in 1798, in front of Alfoxden House (Fenwick 
note), and first published in Lyrical Ballads, first ed., 

The title will be clearer if the earlier title in the edd. 
1798-1815 be recalled — " Lines written at a small dis- 
tance from my house, and sent by my little boy to the 
pirson to whom they were addressed." The present 
title was adopted in 1845. 

Theme. Ostensibly chronicling a trivial incident in 
daily life, the poem really develops a fundumentul part 
of the new philosophy of nature. Here W, gives, as it 
were, the way in which we can most freely gain from 
nature the gift she has to bestOM. 
Pa^^ 4. M7 Sister. Dorothy Wordsworth, to whom 
the lines are addressed, was the younger and only sister 
of William. She was bom in 1771, and lived until 1788 
with her uncle at Forncett Rectory, Norwich. She 
became devotedly af' chad to the poet, and put aside the 
attractions of the wondly society open to her to join her- 
self to her brother's fortunes. Their life at Rac^own, 
Alfoxden, and Grasmere was one of poverty and self- 
denial, joined Mrith high intellectual and emotional de- 
light in nature and poetry. In 1832 her mind was 
affected and she remained an invalid till her death in 
1855. See also Introductions, pp. xviii, xxvii. 

Coleridge describes Dorothy Wordsworth : — " She is a 
woman indeed, in mind I mean, and heart; for her per- 
son is such that if you expect to see a pretty woman, you 
would think her ordinary ; or if you expected to see an 
ordinary woman, you would think her pretty; but her 
manners are simple, ardent, impressive. In every paotion 
her innocent soul outbeams so brightly, i»"aV wl-o fiw 
her would say, 'Guilt was a thing '.npooubie with her.'' 




Her inforaation vorioiw; her life watchful in minutert 
ol>«ervation of nature ; and her taste a perfect electro- 
meter.*' De Quincey'B testimony is that "Some subtle 
fire of impassioned intellect burned within her." 

Further study of this admirable woman can be made in 
Wordsworth's other poems, To a BuUerfiy (both poems), 
The Sparrow's Nest, Prelude, Bks. xi., xii., xiv.. Recluse, 
and in De Quincey, Lake Poets— Wordsworfh, and her own 
Journals, edited by Knight (Macmillan). 

1. l.-It is the first mild day of March. Cf. the open- 
ing of another poem of the same tinje and place— 

1 heard a thousand blended notex, etc. 

The season is that of seuthem England. 

1. 2.— before. The punctuation of our text is the 
reading of all standard editions. 

1. 3.— the taU larch. " The larch mentioned ... was 
standing when I revisited the place in May, 1841, more 
than forty years after. ''—Wordsworth. It is now gone. 

L 7.— Mountains. The Quantock Hills See Introduc- 

1. 11.— Your morning: task. Dorothy's Journal at 
Alfoxdeu makes very clear that the household work was 
done by her— washing, ironing, hanging out linen, going 
for eggs. Memoranda of that sort are varied by such 
records as this : " MarOt. 6th. A pleasant morning, the 
sea white and bright, and full to the brim. I walked to 
see Ck)leridge in the evening. WilUam went with me to 
the wood," etc. 

1. 13.— Edward. " My little boy messenger on this 
occasion was the son of Basil Mont^."— (Wordsworth.) 
This child, the son of a Loudon barrister, was in 
Wordsworth's charge for a few years. See Words- 
wortb> Anecdote for Fathers. 

i. 17.- -No joyless forms. Note the reaction from 
even the calendar ot civilization. 




1. 23.— Prom t-.. ^ to man, from man to earth. The 
eternal dialogue of the spirit of man and the spirit of the 
universe — Wonlaworth's essential teaching. This is mors 
definitely tau(;ht in the Influence of Natural Objects, where 
he tells how the Soul of the universe wove into his being 
the "helpful passions" of life through intercourse in 
solitude amidst woods, hills, and quiet lakea One finds 
the same thought current in Nutting. 
Page s n. 25-6.— One moment now . . . toiling reason. 
A further development of WonlsworthV philosophy. 
The spirit of man that is ijuietly receptive of the influences 
of nature, may g^in from it, he held, more truth and 
strength than from the study of bnuks or human affairs. 
The same theory is the basis of the four poems that follow 
this and others, such as Three Years She Orew in Sim and 
Shower and, in part. The Highland Girl. Thoreau, the 
recluse of Walden, believed the theory. Rousseau is 
largely responsible for this belief in the high efficacy of 
nature as a teacher of humanity. Wordsworth's views in 
this respect are derived, with large modifications, from 
Rousseau. Their value has been criticised: a recent 
writer, Mr. Davison, in his RouMtan and Ed^ication 
according to Nature, pronounces Wordsworth's philosophy 
"immoral to the core" — which is wild. 

The reading till 18.36 was— 

Than flfty years of reason. 

1. 29.— may make. Till 1826 this read— will make. 

1. 33f.— the blessed power that rolls, etc. What is 
this "blessed power?" Wordsworth was scarcely a 
pantheist. It is true he says — 

I felt the sentiment of Being spread 

O'er all that moves and all that Fieemeth still. 

—Prelude, iL 
Yet " Nature's self " he defines as "the breath of Ckid." 
Jt is "blessed," since he finds in it — 

A never-failing principle of joy 
And purest paaAon.— Prelude, iL 



1. 3S.— frame ttie meMim. Dispose sou to harmonize 
(with a certain sentiment). The phrase develops the 
thought in IL 31, 32, which is continued in L 36. 

1. 36.— They shall be tuned to lore. This is the best 
teaching of the new poets ; Wordsworth, Coleridge, and 
Shelley unite m glorifying loving kindnesei as the saving 
spirit of humanity. 


Circumstances of composition. This poem belongs to 
the same period as the preceding. " It was composed in 
front of the house at Alfoxden, in the spring of 1798." 
(Fenwick Note.) It was first printed in Z^yrtca/ ^o^cuiA, 
1798. "This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as 
I have learnt on many occasions." (Fenwick Note.) 

Theme. Again is Wordsworth's philosophy here im- 
plicit. Some one reproaches the poet with dreaming 
through the day, neglecting books ; but his reply is that 
our senses, our intuitive self, can put us in touch with 
the truest source of knowledge, if we, being watchful of 
them, let them act Then, said the poet elsewhere, — 

We are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We Me into the life of thinri. 

—Tintem Abbey. 

"Wordsworth," says Shairp, "had felt, and after 
reflection had made the feelings a noted and habitual 
conviction, that the world without him, the thing we call 
Nature, is not a dead machine, but something pervaded 
by a life — sometimes he calls it a soul ; that this living 
Nature was a unity ; that there was that in it which 
awoke in him calm n ess, awe, and tenderness ; that this 



infinite life in Nature was not something which he 
attributed to Nature, but that it existed external to him, 
independent of his thoughts and feelings, and was in no 
way the creation of his own mind ; that, though his 
faculties in nowise created those qualities in Nature, they 
might go forth and aspire towards them, and find sup^xirt 
in them . . . The invisible voice which came to him 
through the visible universe was not in him, as has often 
been asserted, a Pantheist conception. Almost in the 
same breath he speaks of 

Nature's self, which Is the breath of God, 
His pure word by miracle revealed. 

Ho tells us that he held the speaking face of earth and 
heaven to be an organ of intercourse with man, — 

Established by the sovereicm intellect 
VVho througrh that bodily ima«re hath ditfiisod. 
As mifrht appear to the eye of fleetioK tirau, 
A deathless spirit." 

—On, Poetic Interpretation of Nature. 

Thoreau's testimony is here of interest. •' Sometimes, 
on a summer morning, I sat in my sunny doorway from 
sunriite till noon, wrapt in u reverie, amidst the pines and 
hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and utill- 
ness, while the birds sang in solitude around or flitted 
noiseless through the house. . . I grew in those seasons 
like corn in the night."— JTa/den, " Sounds." 

The opinion of the Philistine of this theory is voiced in 
Macaulay's comment on The Prelude. —"There are the 
old flimsy philosophy about the effects of scenery on the 
mind ; the old crazy mystical metaphysics," etc. 

Title. Note the significance of the title as respects the 
two views of how to gain wisdom, voiced by Matthew 
and the poet. 




Pag«6. 1. 7.— the spirit breathed, etc. This is almost 
Milton's noble praise:— "A good book is the precious 
life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up 
OD purpose to a life beyond life."— ^reopajfa«»co. 

IL 10-12. — ^no purpose, etc. Referring to the ordinary 
pursuits of J fe, and to the achievements of men of learn- 
ing — botli of which the poet is said to neglect. 

L 13.— Esthwaite Lake. The little lake at Hawks- 
head, Lancashire. (See Introduction.) 

Oft before the hours of school 
I travelled round our little lake, five miles 
Of pleasant wandering. 

L 16. — Matthew. Representative of the lover of books. 
Matthew, who is associated with various poems (e. g. 
Matthew), is only in part drawn from Wordsworth's be- 
loved headmaster of the Hawkshead school, the Rev. 
William Taylor. " Like the Wanderer in The Excurnon, 
this schoolmaster was made up of several, both of his 
class and men of other occupations."— Fenwick Note. 

1. 32.— dream my time away. Wordsworth does not 
despise books, as may be seen in Personal Talk: — 

And books, we know. 
Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
Blensings be on them— and eternal praise. 
Who feave ua nobler lives, and nobler cares— 
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 

Yet they are second in power to Nature — 

Speak of them as Powers 
Forever to be hallowed; only less . . . 
Than Nature's self. 

—Prelude, v. 






Circunutances of compoiitioii. The poem was it . itten 
at Alfoxden, frotn meinoriet* of Hawkshead, in 1798, and 
published in Lyrical B<iUadnoi thatj'ear. 

Theme. The theme is continued from the preceding; 
but here it is the poet of nature who viudifiates the 
teaching of nature to the student of books. 

Page 7. 11. 1-4.— Up I up I my Friend, etc. This read 
until 1820— 

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks. 
Why all this toil and trouble } 
Up! up! my friend, and quit yti ur books, 
Or surely you'll grow double. 

11. 5f. — ^the mountain's head long green fields. A 

description of the vale of Esthwaite. Westward Yewdale 
Fell and Coniston " Old Man," and northerly the distant 
view of Fairfield and Hdvellyn; near by, the "jfreen 
fields " bordering the lake. 

L 10.— the woodland' linnet A bird of over five 
inches long, usually reddish-brown and grey in color — 
found generally in thickets and heathery glt>ns. Its song 
is not 8()ecially fine, being "short but pleasant." See 
also Wordsworth's Green Linnet. 

1. 12. — wisdom. Interpret in the light of stanza v. ff. 

1. 13. — throstle. The song-thcush or mavis. See 
Renerie of Poor Swtan, note. 

1. 14.— He, too. This rood till 1815— 
And he Is no moan preacher. 
Page 8. 1. 28.— We murder to dissect Wordsworth's 
work —his interest in the inner life, his sense of mystery, 
his belief that knowledge of the infinite comes to us 
unsought— all is a protest against that era of reason, the 
eighteenth century. He hiwl been misled in his early 
manhood by wild hopes entertained by the Revolutionist 



of human perfection to be achieved through Reason. He 
pleaded now for a better organ of investigation, the sensi- 
tive intellect and the intelligent heart, for science per- 
vaded with love. Cf . A Pott's Epitaph (Appendix. ) 

This criticism of science is open to misconception, as 
when Buskin says of Wordsworth: — "He could not 
understand that to break a rock with a hammer in search 
of crystals may sometimes be an act not disgraceful to 
human nature, and that to describe a flower may some- 
times be as proper as to dream over it. " — Modem Painters, 
in., xvii, § 7. 


Circumstances of compositioii. This poem was writ- 
ten during the poet's residence in Germany in 1799 (see 
Introduction). It was first published in Coleridge's per- 
iodical The Friend, 18i>d. It was incorporated with other 
descriptions of the poet's early life in the Prelude, Bk. L 

Theme. The theme is descriptive of the vale of 
Hawkshead and Esthwaite lake. Wordsworth's recollec- 
tions of the effect of his out-of-doors experiences furnish 
the persuasive proof of his theory that Nature is a pure 
and beneficent teacher. Note that the teaching here is 
simply the clear pictures, the suggestions of loneliness 
and mystery that Nature intertwines with the soul — not 
moral teaching, as in the preceding poem. 

Page 8. 1. 1.— Wisdom and Spirit See " the btessed 
power " in To My Sinter, and note. Universal Nature, 
Wordsworth implies, has immanent in it, a soul, wise, 
spiritual, which is eternal thought, and by virtue of it all 
apiiearunces of Nature derive their life (brwith) and their 
everlasting variations. Compare Goethe's description in 
FauM. of the eurth-spirit workin;; at the whirring loom of 
Time, weaving the living vesture of God. 



I. 7.— passions that build up. Cf. 

We live by admiration, Iiope, and love. 

—Wordsworth, Excursion, iv. 763. 

1. 8.— Not with.— The reading of 1809 was— nor with. 

mean and vulgfar works of Man. A line significant of 
the protest against urlwn civilization, raised by Cowper, 
Burns, Wordsworth, and the other poets of revolutionary 
thought. Cf. Cowper's famous line — 

Ood made the country, and man made the town. 

— rew*. i. 794. 
Page 9. 1. 14. — A grandeur. S> ce harmonious with the 
universal soul. 
1. 20. — trembling lake. Esthwaite. 
L 21.— homeward I went Till 18.36—1 homewaitl 

L 23.— Mine was it Till 1845— 'Twas mine among the 

1. 27. — through the twilight blazed. MS. variant — 
blazed through twilight gloom. 

1. 29.— for m& The reading of 1809 was— to me. 

L 31. — village-clock. The reminiscence is repeated 



The chnrch-clock and 'he chimes 
Sing here beneath the hude. 

— WordHworth, The Fountain. 

33.— for his home. Till 1827— for its home. 

Page 10. 1. 37. — loud-chiming. The hounds yelling in 
the chase, with voices various in pitch but blending in 
harmony, are descril)ed as chiming, Cf. 

" Matched in moutli like hells, 
Each under each." 
— Shakspere, A Midsummtr-N'ighVa Dream, iv. i. 128. 
Chime ye dappled darlinifH, 

Down the roui-ing blast ; 
Ye Hhall Hee a fox die 
Ere an hour be past 
— Klngsley, Ode to the NoHhEaat Wind. 
The reading till 1842 was — loud bellowing. 



1. 40.— SmHten. Till 1846— Meanwhile. 
1. 42. — Tinkled. The sharp ringing echo in meant, 
far-dittant Till 1842— while the dintant hills. 
1, 60.— the reflex. The leading from 1827. 

ISno. To cut acrosH the image of n star. 
ISJO. To crosa the brifbt reflection of a star. 

I. 52.— The glassy plain. 

1820l That gleamed upon the ice. 

II. A3 ff. — given our bodies to the wind, etc. Ar he in 
borne on by the wind, the banlcs Heem to rush towards 
him in his flight ; stopping short, he feels them still 
flying past, like the earth moving visibly ; more even 
seem to follow, but, as the iUusion fades, ever more 
slowly, till at last all is culm as a summer sea. 

1. 63. — as a summer sea. MS. variant — as a dream- 
less sleep. 


Composition and publication. Written in Germany in 
1799, and published in 1800. "Intended as (lurt of a 
poem on my own life (i.e. The Prelude), but struck out 
as not being wanted there. Like most of my school- 
fellows I wiM an impassioned nutter. For this pleasure 
the Vule of Esthwaito, abounding in coppice wood, fur- 
nished a very wide range. These verses arose out of the 
remembrance of feelings I had often when a boy, and 
particularly in the ext<?nsive woods that still stret*;h from 
the side of Esthwtiite Lake towards Oraythwaite, the seat 
of the ancient family of Sandys." ( Fenwick Note. ) "The 
hazel coppice is still abundant, and the place to which the 
Fenwick note refers can easily be identified" { Knight). 

Page II. I. 5. —cottage-threshold. "The pupils in the 
Hawkshead sc^hool, in Wordsworth's time, boarded in the 
houses of village dames. Wordsworth lived with one 
Aane Tyson, for whom he ever afterwards cherished the 



warmest regard, and whose simple character he has im- 
mortalised. (See especially Book iv. of The Prelvde.) 

"Dame Tyson's cottage is reached through a pictu- 
resque archway . . . and is on the right of a small open yard 
... to the left, a lane leads westward to the open country. 
It is a humble dwellinqr of two stories. The floor of the 
basement flat paved > fch the blue flags of Coniston slate. " 
— Knight. A picture of the cottage is given on p. ix. of 
the Introduction. ^ 

Till 1827, this line read- 
When forth I sallied from our cottage door. 
1. 6.— with a huge wallet The reading of 1832. 
ISno. And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung. 
1815. With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung. 

1. 8.— Tow'rd the far-distant wood. Till 1836 this 
read — Towards the distant woods. 

I. 9.— cast-off weeds. Till 1815— of Beggar's weeds. 
Weed (A.S. tiwed, garment), clothing. 

II. 10 f.— which for that service, ete. Reading of 1815. 

180a Put on for the occasion, by advice 

And exhortation of mj frugal Dame. 

11. 14 ff.— O'er pathless rocks ... I came. Till 1836 this 

read — 

Among the woods, 
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced ray way. 
Until at length, I came. . . . 
1. 20. -tempting clusters. Till 184.5 this read— milk- 
white clusters. 

Page 12. 1. 33.— fairy water-breaks. Cf. 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravcL 

—Tennyson, The Brook. 

1. .50.— Ere from the mutilated bower. Till 18.36 this 

read — 

Even then, when from the bower I turned away. 



PSffe 13. 1. 52.— I felt a sense of [win. "Hia nviiges 
ended . . . the sight of the deep shades, an hour ago 
uubroken, but now rent by the intruding light of heaven, 
fills him with secret puin. Nothing can be at once more 
subtle and more universal than these impressions. ..the 
impressions which inspired the creators of myths."— 
1. 54.— dearest Maideu. His sister Dorothy. 


Composition and^ublication. " Written at the Town- 
end, Urasmcre, about tlie sume time as The Brothers. 
The sheep-fold, on which so much of the poem turns, 
remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and 
circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom 
had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in 
at Town-end, along wij,h some fields and woodlands on 
the eastern shore of (irusmere. The name of the Evening 
Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another 
on the same side of the valley, more to the north." (Fen- 
wick Note.) 

To Mr. Justice Coleridge Wordsworth said: "Michael 
was founded on the son of an old couple, having be- 
come dissolute, and run away from his parents ; and on 
an old shepherd having been seven years in building 
up a sheep-fold in a solitary valley " (Knight). 

Dorothy's journal shows the period of composition from 
October 11, 1800, to December 9. It was published in 
the second edition of Lyrical Ballach, 1800-01. 

Theme. Woitlsworth here reaches his highest period 
and his greatest field — human life interfused with nature. 
With the story of humble truth he weaves the atmos- 
phere of environing nature. "In the two poems. The 
Brothers and Michtml, I liiive attempted to draw a picture 
of the domestic affections, as I know them to exist among 




a chuM of men who are now almost confined to Jllx6 north 
of En^^Iand. They are small independent pnprietorii of 
land, here called statesmen, men of respectable education, 
who daily labour on their own little properties. . . The 
doEjestic affections will always be strong with men who 
live in a country not crowded with population, if these 
men are placed above poverty. . . Their little tract of 
land serves as a kind of rallying point for the domestic 
feelingK. . . The two poems were written to show that 
men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply. . . The 
poems are faithful copies of nature. They may excite 
profitable Bym{iathies in many kind and good hearts, and 
may in some small degree enlarge our feelings of rever- 
ence for our species."— Wordsworth, Letter to Charles 
James Fox, 1801. 

"His interests and sympathies, stimulated to excess by 
the political convulsions, . . . now found healthier objects 
in the lalxjuring poor whom he converHed with in the . 
fields, and in the vagrants he met on lonely roads. These 
became his daily schools. . . His early upbringing com- 
bined with after ex[ierienne and reflection to make him 
esteem simple and humble life more than artificial . . .to 
make lumTove^and esteem wliat is permanent, not what 
is accidental in human life, the inner, not the outer man 
of men, the essential soul, not its trappings of birth, for- 
tune, and position. . . In humble men, when not wholly 
crushed or hardened by penury, he seemed to see the 
primary paasions and elementary feelings of human 
nature existing as it were in their nati\ a l)ed."— Shairp, 
On. Poetic Interprftation of Nature. 
Pagre 13.— A Pastoral Poem. A jx)em of shepherd life. It 
was reserved for Burns and Wordsworth to redeem poetry 
from the sham ijostorals whicli, following the example of 
Virgil, Siienser and his followers imposed on English verse. 
"Between Luke and Alexis there is the whole difference 
of Niiture from Pan" ( Magnus}. 




Topopmphy of the poem. Michael embodies the acfines 
of Grafimere, WeHtmoreland, and the spirit of the dsleti- 
men. A few moments' study of the illuHtration, p. viii., 
will help to give a conception of the former. We 
are looking northward across the nnwimere lake and 
the lovely Vale (1. 40) in which it lies. The village of 
Gnnnere (1. 135) lies a little to the left. The public 
way (LI) which touches the eant of the lake climbs on 
behind the village up to Dmunail-Raise (1. 134), the 
mountain gap in the background. The firnt mountain 
to the left of the village is Helm Crag and to its left is the 
entrance into Easedale(l. 134). Michael's uotte) •i\ 132) 
stood eastward from the village (1. 135), on t' > 'rising 
ground" (1. !.%>), on the "forest -side" (L 40) , we shall 
place it therefore among the trees to our right ( now much 
scantier than of old), on the side of Stone- Arthur. (It 
stood, says Knight, where the coach-house and stables of 
"the hoUins" now stand.) Green-head Ghyll (1. 2) is 
the valley leading up towards Fairfield summit, between 
Stone-Arthur and (to the east) Rydul Fell. The unfinish- 
ed fold ( 1. 325 ) was high up the Ghyll, but the locality is 
diffic-'t to identify. 

L I die public way. The coach road from Ambleside 
to Keswick, passing by Grasmere. 

1.2.— Green-head Ghyll. "<ihyll, in the dialect of 
Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short, and, for the 
most part, a steep, narrow valley, with a stream running 
through it." — Wordsworth. Gi-een-head Ghyll is under 
Stone- Arthur, the mountain sheltering Grasmere on the 

1. 5. — pastoral mountains. "In places . . . the mountains 
have a green pastoral voluptuousness, so smooth and I'uU 
are they with thick turf. At other pwints the rock has 
fretted through the verdant carpet . . . There are sheep 
everywhere." — Bun-oughs, Fresk Fidds, "In Words- 
worth's Country." 




1. 9.— Nohabitatioacaii. The reading of 1827. 
UOO. No habitation there in Moen : but Huch 
Afl Journey thithor. 

L 17.— Appear!. Until 1827— There is. 

Page 14. 11. IRf.— And to that tiniple object The reading 
of 1836. This first ran - 

1800. And to that place a Htory appertainH, 

Which, thouirh it be ungarniHhed with eventH, 
la not anflt . . , 

1. 22.— Of thoae domestic tales. Till 1827 this rend— 

The earliest of thotte taloM that Mpaico to mo. 
U. 23f.— men... I already lored. Wordsworth tells us 
in The Prdndr, viii., — 

" That noticeable Idndlinewii of heart 

Sprang out of fountainn, there aboundini; moNt. 

Where sovereitm Nature dictated the tiL-iks 

And occupations which her Ijouuty adorned. 

And Shepherds were the men that pleaHedme flmt." 

1. 23.— Shepherds, dwellers in the Talleys. Words- 
worth elsewhere paj's due tri>)ute to men like Michael — 
the dalesmen of (iruHniere : — 

Laiwur here preserves 
His rosy face, n servant only hero 
Of the fireside or of the open field, 
• A »^reeuian, therefore, sound and unimpaired I 
That extreme penury is hero unl^nown . . . 
Where kindred independence of estate 
Is pri'v aleoft, wlicre he who tills the field. 
He. Impp/man I is maHtcr of the field. 
And treius the mountains which his Fathers trod. 

— The liecluHe. 
1. 40. — Grasmere Vale. ' ' There was a quiet splendour, 
almost grandeur, about Oriisinere Vale, such as I had 
not seen elsewhere, — a kind of moimmtntal beauty 
and dignity that apreetl well with one's conception 
of the loftier strains of the poet. It is not too much 
dominated by mountains, though shut in on all sides by 
them ; that stately level floor of the valley keeps them 




bock aitfl defines tiuiu, and they rise from iin outer 
margin like ru^fged, green-tufted, and green-draped 
walls." -.Tohn Burroughs!, Fresh Field*. 

Pa^eis. 1. ').— The South.. .mbternuieout muaic. The 
prelude of . torm from the sea. Cf. 

I would 8tand, 
I r night blackenod with a coming Rtorm, 
Iteneath some rock. liflt«ninK to notes that are 
The ghoHtly laiiKiiage of tho ancient earth. 
Or make their dim alMxlo in dixtanl winds. 

-The Preludf, ii. 
Oft the teeming earth 
Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd 
Bjr the impri.'wning of unruly wind 
Within her womb. 

— Shalwpore, /. Henru II'., iii. I. .30. 

1. 66.— The hills, which with vigforous step. Till 1836 
this ran — 

The hUls. which ho no oft 
Had climlied witli vigoroux stepN. 

!L 72ff.— Unking to such acts... those hills. Till 1827 
this read, — 

Linking to sucli acts. 
So grateful in thenwelveH, the certainty 
Of iiuiiourable gains ; theHe fields, these hilln 
Which were hiH living Bcii>i;, ('\ en more 
Than his own BUxxl,— what could . . . 

For the tliouglit compare (ioldsmith — 

Dear is tnat shed to which his soul conforms. 
And dear tliat hill which lifts him tn the Htorms. 

- The Traveller. 

The lin. -2-77 show W.'s theorj- of the unnonsciuus 
influence ut nature on human life. 

Pag^ t6. 

1815 was 

He had a wife, a comely matron, ol>i 
Pag:e 17. 1. 99. the cleanly. Till ls.l6— then cleai 
in 1. 102, " the meal " was — their lueaL 

79. — His Helpmate was. The rf-ading till 




L 108. — Luke. Aiutuio strei. th u ven by the 
riamea Miohael, I. ike. 
1. 11-- — VtTith hu^e and odack. Till 1836 
Did with n hago prujeotion nverbrow. 
1. 1-23 -had reached. Till 1827— was in. 

Page i8. I. 125. —while far. Till 183ft— while late. 

1. 128. summer flies. Following this in edl<l. 1800, 

18U2 wa»- 

K<it with H waMte of words, but for thu tke 
Of pleoHtire, which I k uw that I Hhall k ^ ve 
Tu maiiy now, I of thii> lamp 
Hpeak thUH minutely ; for there are not few 
WhoHe moniti: ica will bt r witneMH to injrtale. 

1. 129. —This ligffet The fi • l ed. —The light. 

1. 134. — Dunmail-Raiae. i ivo and n half m >' :rom 

Orasmere, on the way to Keswick, is '' . stoe{' tc-h of 

rntul. . .720 feet above the sea, on either h; n\ t < luoun- 

taiiis of Hteel Fell and Seat Htindal,*^ on tl \)o. r-lineof 

Westmon .nd an'i umberluud. It t«k(> '-tu ,iune uuin 

Duniuai). Uu«t British kingof Cumberluitd, ..tia in battle, 

945, by ti>< Saxon Edmund. His <•;• still faiBidH. See 

Wordh»'»rtJi's WaijijoMr lot — 

ThiH narrow ittra 
Stony and dark a;id duHul 

141. Less from instinctiTe teiMlerr^.ss 'S27 — 

' '.ifeft which ni! 'ht perhaps have b< <»i. 44j4,aa 
liy that iuHtiuci e tendernetss. 

1 14ri. -Fond spirit, eu Till lS3tJ 

itiUud S| irit, which i» in ' he blood < t all. 

1. 146.— Than. TiU 1827-Or. 

Pagreip. 1. 150. 
this with — 

Must fail The cxhl. to IM-JO followed 

For thetir', and other causcH, t - > < he I houchtx 
}t thr il man, l;is only b«)ii v v 

The d< rest object that be knew on earth. 



L lSS.-putiine. ' TiU 1827— dalliance. 

L 168.— «i with. Till 1836— with. 

IL 163ff.— Wrottgrht in the field, etc. Till 1836— 
Had work by his own door, or when he sate 
With sheep before him on hia shepherd's stool 
Beneath that large oak. which near ' heir door 
Stood, and from its enormous breauin of shade. 

L 189.-CUppinjr Tree, aipping is the word used in 
the north of England for shearing.- Wordsworth note 
ed. 180U. 



1. 207.— While in this sort, etc. The reading of 



While this good household thus were Uving on. 
While in this fashion which I have described 
This simple household thus were living on. 

1. 2ai.— As soon as he had armed. Till 1836 this 
read — 

As soon a« he had gathered so much strength 
That he could look his troubles in the face. 
It seemed that his sole refuge was to seU. 

Page 22. 1. 233. -himself. 'Till 1827— itself. 

1. 253. -He may return. TiU 1836— May come again. 

Page 23. 1. 259. -Richard Bateman. ' ' The story alluded 
to here is well known in the country. The chapel is called 
Ings Chapel, and is on the right-hand side of the road lead- 
ing trom Kendal to Ambleside."— Wordsworth's note, ed. 
1800. Knight quotes Lewis, Topogr. Diet, of England: 
" Hugil, a chapehy six and a quarter miles from Kendal 
The chapel, rebuilt in 1743 by Robert Bateman, stands in 
the village of Ings. . . The free school was endowed with 
knd in 1650 by Robert Wilson . . . This endowment was 
augment^tl by £8 ,)er annum by Robert Bateman, who 
gave £1,000 for purchasing an estate, and erected eight 
alms-houses . . . This worthy benefactor was born here, 
and from a state of indigence succeeded in amassing 
considerable wealth by mercantile pursuitfl." 



Pmgit 24. 1. 201.— Last two mgh\a. Till 183ft— two last 
1. 305.— With daylight Till 1820— Next morning. 

Page as 1. 325.— Sheep-fold. "It ni / be proiwr to 
inform sor n readers that a sheepfold in these mountains 
is an unrc'Oied building of stone walls, with different 
divisions. It is generallN- placed by a brook, for the 
convenience of washing tlie sheep ; but it is also useful 
as a shelter for them, and as a place to drive them into, 
to enable shepherds conveniently to single out one or 
more for any particular purpose. " — Wordsworth, Note 
in Lyrical BaUadu, 

1. 328.— Which by the streamlet's edge. TiU 1816 
— which close to the brook fiide 

Page ad. 11. 339f.— touch On things. Till 1836— Speak 
Of things. 
1. 341.— as oft befalls. Till 1827 -as it befals. 
1. 349.— While thou. Till 183t>— When thou. 

Page 37. 1. 374.— from three-score years. Till 1827— from 
sixty years. 
1. 302.— hale. Till 1827— stout. 
Page aS. L 408.— Be thy companions. The first ed. 

Be thy companlont), let th<8 Sheep-fold be 
Thy anchor and thy shield ; auiid all fear 
And all tuniptiition, let it be to thee 
An emblem of the life thy Fathers lived. 

Page a9. 1. 427.— Ere the night fell. Till 1815— 

Next mominif oh hud been resolved, the boy. 
Page 30. 1. 452.— Would overset the brain, etc. 

Would break the heart :— old Michael found it so. 

1. 458.— to sun and cloud. 80 in 1836 ; but the 1800ed. 
read — upon tlie sun ; 1832 — toward the sun. 

1. 468.— And never lifted up a single stone. " It is tiie 
touch of nature, the pathos of work unfinished . . that 






gives Michael, the humble shephMtl, hia share in the 
universal heart. "The great distinguishing passion,' 
wrote Walter Pater, • came to Michael by the sheep-fold, 
tc Ruth by the wayside, adding those humble children of 
the furrow to the true aristocracy of passionate souls.'" 
— Magnus. 

L 470.— «r wWl Till 1838— with that 

Compotitimi and publicatum. In August, 1803, Woids- 
■ '.orth, his sister, and Coleridge set out on foot for a tour 
through Scotland. From Dumfries the travellers made 
their way up Loch Lomond into the Highlands. Passing 
through the Trossachs, they ascended to the head of 
Loch VoiL 

Dorothy describes the scene :— " The vale pastoral and 
unenclosed, not many dwellings, and but few trees ; the 
mountains... are in large unbroken masses, combining 
with the vale to give an impression of bold simplicity. 

" As we descended, the scene became more fertile, our 
way being pleasantly varied through coppices or open 
fields, and passing farm houses, though always with an 
intermixture of uncultivated ground. It was harvest- 
time, and the fields were quietly — might I be allowed 
to say ijeusively ? — enlivened by small companies of 
reapers. It is not uncommon in the more lonely parts of 
tho Highlands to see a single person so employed. The 
following poem (7%«iSW»<ary Reaper) was suggested to 
William by a beautiful sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's 
Tour in Scotland. 

Knight had made clear that the sentrice in question is 
from Wilkinson's Tonra to the British MoiaUaim, 1824, 
which Wordsworth saw in M.S. The MS. reads : " Passed 
by a female reaping alone and singing in Erse as she bent 



over her sickle, the sweetest human voice I ever heard. 
Her strains were tenderly melancholy, and felt delicious 
long after they were no more heard." 

The poem was composed between 1803 and 1806, and 
published in Potnu, 1807. 

Theme. The theme is a peasant girl reaping. To 
Wordsworth she is a human soul living the life of the 
face—a strain of "the still sod music of humanity." The 
vjist silent loneliness is about her. She sings, and her 
song suggests the old clan-life of the ill-fated race of the 
Macgr^ors, or the inevitable griefs of our common 
human lot. Such a picture does not pass away. It. will 
remain like the sight of the DaflFodils that "flash upon 
the inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude." Such 
experiences pass into our subconscious self, adding to our 
nature something that modifies it to good, adding an 
element of beauty and [jassion and pathos. 

lu contrast with Wordsworth's treatment, think how 
Burns would have approached the theme and the subject 
of it; would have sung the old descant of eyes and lips, 
and love and parting; see how immeasurably Words- 
worth has widened the horizon of our view of humble 
life^made us feel the landscape in the figure, the history 
and the lot of human life in the song, while by his art, 
everything is kept cool and H.istant, full of atmosphere. 
And all this was fifty year.^ before &l "Uet put brush to the 

Page 31. 1. 7. — Vale. See above. Note the suggestion of 
loneliness and even silence tliat is called up here — an 
experience that peculiarly affected Wordsworth— 

The Hilenee that it* in tho Htarry sky, 
The sleep that is among tho lonely hilb. 

—Brougham Caiitle. 
1. 13.— A voice so thrilling. The reading adopted in 




1807. No 8 wreeter voice was erer beard. 
1827. Such thrilliuK voice waa never heard. 

P*»e 3* I. 16. -farthest Hebrides. An echo of 
stormy Hebrides" of Lycidaa and of— 

The wave-worn shoroH of utmost Oroadeu. 

-MUton, On. the Dtath of Damon. 
Milton's suggestive use of proper name is unequalled 
*u "» !^"*^'*™*'*" associated in my memory y th 
the Hebrides . . . When no sound comes on the ear save 
at intervals the faint murmur of-the waves . . .the sonir of 
the thrush is poured forth from the summit of some Rran- 
ite block ... The cuckoo calls to his nu»t« from the cairn 
on the hill. Again aU is silent The streaks in the 
channel show that the tide is ebbing; a thin white vapour 
w spread over the distant islands."— Macgillivray. 

1. 29.— I listemd, mottonless and still. Till 1820 
this read — 

I listened till I had my till. 

1.30. -And, as I mounted. In 1827-Aad when I 

i.^'—T?* »"^«= i° "y »»«*rt I bore. A characteristic 
ending. Wordsworth insists that such experiences pass 
into our subconscious life, and permanently affect wir 
natures for good. The close of The Highland Girl and 
/wondered lonely m a cloud are further illustrations of 



Composition and publication. After a year at Alfox- 
den in the neighbourhood of Coleridge, the two poets and 
Dorothy Wortlsworth set out, Sei>t. 16th, 1798, for 
Germany. (See Introd.) While Coleridge went on to 
Ratzeburg to absorb German languiige, philo«H>[Ay, and 
life, the Wonlsworths buried themHelves in ( joslar, on the 
edge of the Hurtz Foi-est. Wordsworth got little pleasure 
from German society or literature or climate — the winter 
was terribly severe — but driven back upon himself, the 
impulse from his Alfnxden life prompted him to one of the 
most productive periods of his life. In Goslar he wrote 
NuUing, The Pw(» Efiitaph, The Fountain, Tim April 
Morning'*, Ruth, began The Prelude, aid composed (1799) 
the various Liici/ [Mems. These last arc the lyrics 
beginning : — 

(1.^ Strange fltH of patwion have I known. 

(iL) Hhe dwelt auiuuK the uiitrcxldcn wayti. 

(ilL) I travelled among unknown men. 

(Iv.) Three years she grrew in sun and shower, 

(v.) A slumber did my spirit seaL 

They form an interesting rjroup of poems of ideal love, 
and should be read in connection with one another. 

The Luq/ poems were first published in the new enlarged 
ed. of the Ly.icai BaUadu, Lon''on, 1800, and reprinted 
1802, 1805, ete. The variations in the text are of the 

The tubject of the poems of Lucy. " The Goskr 
poems include those addressed to Lucy. Some have 
supposed that there was an actual Lucy, known to Words- 
worth in Yorkshire, ' almuc the springs of Dove,' to 
whom he was attache<l, who died early, and whose love 
and beauty he commemorate-^ in these five memorial poems. 



There M no doubt that the intensity of the lines, the 
allumon to the spinning wheel, to the • violet by the 
mossy stone half hidden from the eye," to the ' bowers 
where Lucy pUyed,' to the • heath, the cahn, and quiet 
«oene, all suggest a real person. We only wish there 
were evidence that it had been so. But there is no such 
evidence."— JTn^A/, ix. 187. 

The Baroness von Stockhausen, nevertheless, has 
written a tale called VMchei^nJl (Violet-fmgnin(;e), 
which weaves about Wordsworth the incidents suggested 
in the lAu:y poems. 

CritiaU comments Coleridge recognized the beauty of 
the poem with ungrudging admiration. "I would 
rather have written Ruth, and Nature's Lady [Thrt* 
Year,, etc.]," he told Sir H. Davy (Oct. 9. 1800), " than 
a mUUon such poems [as Chri^ahd]." W. A. Heard says 
of it: •' Nature sjwaks to our minds, but her sounds and 
music also aflFect body as well as soul. Wordsworth does 
not separate the physical and spiritual ; nothing is solely 
physical in its effect, everything has a spiritual result 
This combination of physical and spiritual teaching in 
nature is the idea embodied in Thrte year» .he ^u,. One 
sUnza IS specially apposite : ' And she shall lean her 

Platonic feluMto„s„ess of language as the expression of 
a philosophy. ■'- Word»uHmh Soc. Proc. , vi. 55 

Ruskin's appreciation of the poem is marked with his 
usual wonderful insight. In Se^,ne a,ul LUies (Of 
Queens <;ardens), he quotes most of this poem in the 
following context : 

"The first of our duties to her [womanj. ... is to 
secure her such pl,v«ical training and exerc-ise as 
may conhrm her l.eallh, and perfect h.r beauty; the 
highest refanement of b«»uty being unatUinable 
without splendour of activity and of delicate strc^igta. 



To perfect her beauty, I say, and increase its power; 
it cannot be too powerful, nor Bhed itn sacred light too 
far ; only remember that all phjrsical freedom is vain to 
produce beauty without a corresponding freedom of heart. 
There are two paswges of that poet who is distinguished, 
it seems to me, from all others — not by power, but by ex- 
quisite rightnesB — which point you to the source and 
describe to you, in a few syllables, the completion of 
V omanly beauty [stt. 1, 2, 4, 6 of this ijoem are quotM) 

This for the means ; now note the end. Take from 

the same poet, in two lines, a perfect description of 
womanly beauty : — 

'A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet recordH, promioeH ah swoet,'" etc. 
The whole of Queens' Gardens is indeed a beautiful 
commentary on this [Kiem. 

P»Sre 33- — The title. The poem is indexed in Lyrical 
Ballad*, Three years she grew in sun and shower. In 
edd. 1843, 1846, etc., it is indexed and paged, Lucy. 
Otherwise it has remained without title. Mr. Palgrave 
in the Oolden Treamiry invents the title "The Education 
of Nature." 

1. 7f.— Myself will with me In 1802 the poet 

changed the lines to : 

Her Teacher I mynelf will be, 

She In my darling; and with me 
but wisely returned to the original text in 180;"). 

1. lOf.— In earth and heaven, an overseeing power. 

The philosophy of this bears illustration from every line 

of Tintem Ahtmy, as from the following : — 
Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved hor ; 'tis her prlvilogo. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lowl 
Fi-om joy to joy : for she can so Inform 
The mind that Is within us, so Impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty tltuUithUi, that neither evil tongueH, 



Ra«h Jodgmenta, nor the Meern <rf Mlflah men. 
Nor greetinga where no kindnom Im, nm- all 
The dreary intercoune of dally life. 
Shall e'er prevail agalnitt uh or diiitnrb 
Our cheerful faith, that aU which we behold 
Ib full of blflHingB. 

I ia I rni. -'J'intem Abibev,\. xntt. 

I. 16.— *er«. The author'n reading was her's. 

L 20.-for her the wiUow bend. Tlie willow lends it* 
lithe grace, with which to imbue the Maiden. 

1. 23. -Cnce that ahaU mould. This in the reading in 
1802, but ed. 1800 reads, 

A beauty that nhall mould her form. 

i'tPS^ I. Sl.-vitalfeelingrs. "'Vital feelings of delight,' 
observe. Tliere are deiuUy feelings of delight ; but the 
natural ones are vital, n«-e«sary to very life. And they 
must be feelings of delight, if they are to be vital. Do 
not think you can make a girl lovely, if you do not make 
her happy. There is not one restraint you can put on a 
good girl's nature— there is not one check you give to 
herinstinctsofaffectionc, of effort— which will not be 
indelibly written on her features, with a hardness which 
is all the more (lainful becauNo it takes away the h '.'ht- 
nesH from the eyes of lnnocen(!e. and the pliarm fn, he 
brow of virtue."— Ruskin, Semme and LUiei,, ii. § 71 
! 36.— Here in thia happy dell. " Observe, it is 

• Nature ' who is speaking throti<rhout, and who says, 

• while she and I together live."" -Ruskin, »/>. 

1. .39.- She died, and left to me. " How empty, deso- 
Ute, and colorless Nature, without Human Life present, 
becomes to the Poet, we gather from the conclusion of 
Three pmn die gti-w/- ~,1a,meH Russell Lowell, Words- 
worth Soc. Tr., viii., 76. 

1,40.— thia calm, and quiet scene. Calm, is the 
authoritative reading (1 805, '4.% '46, etc.) ; yet 1802, 
Morley, and other recent editions read, " calm and quiet 




Compotition and pabUcation. This lyric is one of the 
best poeids of W.'s latest period, showing the " medita- 
tive wisdom'' of this period, while the eariier lyric on the 
same subject (1805) shows his pafwionate joy in nature. 
It was written at Rydal Mount, Grasmere, where W. had 
removed in 1813. Its composition is dated 1825 ; its 
publication 1827. 

The subject of the poem. ' ' The bird that occupies the 
second plane to the nightingale in British poetical litera- 
ture is the skylark, a pastoral bird as the Philomel is an 
arborea.1, — a creature of light and air and motion, the 
companion of the plowman„the shepherd, the harvester, 
— whoM neat is in the stubble and whose tryst is in the 
cIond». Its life affords that kind of contrast which the 
imagituition loves — one moment a plain p)ede8trian-bird, 
hardly distinguishable from the ground, the next a 
soaring, untiring songster, revelling in the upper air, 
challenging the eye to follow him and the ear to separate 
his notes. 

The lark's song is not especially melodious, but lithe- 
some, sibilant, and unceasing. Its type is the grass, 
where the bird makes his home, abounding, multitudin* 
ous, thu notes nearly all alike and all in the same key, 
but rajiid, swarming, prodigal, showering down [cf. 
Coleridge, A. M., 1. 358] thick and fast as drojis of rain 
in a summer shower." — John Burroughs, Birds and Poets. 

Other poems on the lark. The Elizabethans first gave 
fit expression to the charm of the Lark's song. 

What Is't now we heart 
None but tho lurk mo nhrill and clear ; 
Now at heaven's KiitcH she claps her winits. 
The mom not wnkijig till nhe sings. 

— John Lyly, Cauipaapt, v. L 




Lyly woa imitated by Shakspera in 

Hark, hark, the lark at heavens gate .int.. 

STw- fi f? « "Printed in the Appendix.) In 
ivw, W, R first lyric Ta a Sk^arl, 

Up with me! up with me into the oloadil 

Zl^'lL "•«".«^7«8heUey, wonderful Ode to ike 

CudiJ "^ Wataon', new poem i, included in tie 

1. 3f.-Or, while thy wings uiiire, etc. 

So «m«tant with thy down ward eye of lore. 
Yet. In aerial 8ln«lene8«.«o free. '^'"'"•"^•• 

And climbing Hhakes hia dewy wing«. 

ferred to A Aformng ^.wnri*. (eomi«Hed 1828) of which 
.t became the eighth .tanza. See Ll noto!^ 
1. 13-— her shady wood. 

Tho,i. light- winged Dryad of the trees. 

m Homo inelndiouH plot 
Of boechen green, and shadows numberlo-«. 
hlngest of summer in full-throated ease. 


1. 18.- Trae to the kindred points, etc. Cf. 
Thy lay iH in heaven, thy love Is on earth. 

o , . -Hogg, The Lark. 

Speakmg of A Morning E.n-.i^,, W.. in a note to Mi« 
Fenwiok, remurlcid : " I could wi«h *L \ ^a 
of this f« K» .• f. " ^"''' *'"^ '««*• five stanzas 

Skytk." ""'- **"' P°^™ ''^^'•-^d *« the 


TheM Btanzoa are : 

Hail, ble above all kinda I— Saitremely ■killed, 
ReHtleHH w J\ flxed to balance, high with low. 
Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopoH to build 
On Much forboaranite ai* the deep niajr iihow ; 
Peri>etual fllirht, unchockod by earthly ticH, 
Loav'Ht to the wandering bird of paradlae. 

Faithful, tbouirh nwift as lightning, the uieek dore; 
Yet niort) haih nature reconciled in thee ; 
80 oonHiant with thy downward eye of loTe, 
Yet, in ai>rial HinglonexH, ho free ; 
80 humble, yet no reaily to rcjotce 
In power of wing and never- wearied voice. 

To the loHt point of view, etc 

How would it pleaw old Ocean to partake. 
With HalloK longing for a breeze in vain. 
The harmony thy noten moMt gladly make 
Where earth rei*embloH nioHt hlH own domain : 
Urania'H xelf might welcome with pleaxcMl ear 
Thetie matins mounting towards her native Hphere. 

Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no ban 
To day-light known deter from that purNuit, 
Tix well that »ome nage instinct, when the Htara 
Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute ; 
For not an eyelid could to sleep incline 
Wert thou among them, singing as they shine ! 


Composition and publication. The Oreen Linnet is one 
of the many beautiful lyrics of the (Irasmere period. 
" The cottage in which Wonlis worth and his sister took 
up thoir aljode, and which still retains the form it wore 
then, stands on the right hand, by the side of the coach- 
road from Ambleside to Keswick, as it enters Gnismere, 
or, as that part of the village is culled. Town-end. The 
front of it faces the lake ; behind is a small plot of 
orchard and garden ground, in which there is aspriug 




•nd rockn ; the whole endorare shelres npwud toward 
the woody «ideH of the mountains ahuve it"— iTeinoir* of 
irordM,nor1h, I 157. " At the end of the orehanl w.« « 
ternuM,, where an arbour or mo«.hut was built by 
Wordsworth i in which he murmured out and wrote or 
diot«t«l many of hin ,«enM. ..The mowhut ix gone, and 
a Htone Mat now taken it« place."- Wordsuwik Country, 

Thi8 i»».m was written in 180.5. Wortlsworth in his 
note to MiH« Fenwick staten that tho ,«em w,w composed 
' m the oivlmrrl. Town-end, Onwmero. where the binl 
was often Heen an here described. " 

Many of Wordsworth's |»ems are ;.--,,, Sated with this 
orcharrl-^'«r.,««. To a BuUerfy, Th. Oretn Linnet. The 
Ikdhr^uHt Chafing the. BiUUrJly, Thr. Kiu and the ^alliiu, 
Lea,y^, Lines in Thom^n't CaM^ o/ /,«&/«««, TU Oreen 
Linwi has the closest associations of all, and " is as true 
to the spirit of the place in 1887 as it was eighty yearn 
ajfo '(Knight). o ^ ^ 

It was published in the second volume of Poem», 1807. 
Theme. The Green Linnet The Greenfinch, or 
Oreen Linnet, is one of the commonest of British birds, 
though not found in Ameri.a. •• Its familiar haunts are 
in onv gardens, shrubberies, and pleasure grounds 
Its song commences in April, ut which time the birds also 
pair. There is nothing striking in its music-it is a song 
which bears some resen.hlanoe to that of an inferior 
Canarv' ; and it is only when several birds are singing in 
chorus that theirnotes are at all attractive. In spring 
half a dozen cock-birds will sometimes be seen in a single 
tree ; and when they are all warbling together, one 
agamst the other, the effect is very harmonious and 

"The adult male Greenfinch has the general colour of 
the plumage, bright yellowish green, brightest on the 
rump, and shading into «lat«-grey on the Hanks and lower 


belly, *nu iDt<^ yellowinhwhiu-on theuiHlertnU-CDvei'ta. 
The crown, the ftideH of the Jitad aiw' iitKk, lio tin lut 
and breei«fc. . .nLite-Krey; the h iii^^ a- ' brow tusli iilituk." 
— Seebohm, ii. 74ff. 
11. 1-8.- BeoMtfa thcM fruit-tree boug-hs . .. 

U07. Tho May Ix come again ;— how HWL-<-t 
To Hit upon my orchard -wiat I 
And Birdn and Flo went once more to irr*>(<t. 

My Ian* yoar'i* Frioii'l!* togelihor : 
My thouKhtA they all b> turuM employ ; 
A whifiperinir Ijoaf In now my joy. 
And then a bird will l>e the toy 
That doth my fancy |i' !.tr. 
1815 (1. 3) .\nd Flowcm and BirdM on(« more to greet. 
The [)rcHent veminn of stanza i. appeared firxt in the 
1827 ed. 

1. 10. — covert of the blest "Covet' " (O.F. comvf-', per. 
part, of eourrir, to cover), hi(ling-plu<«, shelter. 

Pag^e 36. 1. !■'>.— the revels of the May. A j >ioture of the 
binln at 8pring-tiine, taken from the rejoicings of the 
country folk ou Miiy-diiy. The festivities of May -day ~ 
gHthering hawthorn -flowers, S|)nrts, and dancing round 
the May -pole, are callefl "the May." 

I 18.— one band of paramours. Bii-ds and butterflies 
are pairing; in tlio fields, 

"Xo HlHtcr flower wonUl be forgiven 
If it diwlained itt< brother ;" 

but the Linnet is still alone (nole, L. ko/um, alone,. 

paramour (O.F. par amour, with love, as a lover), 

lover, wooer, — an archaic 

1. 25. — Amid yon tutt. l&27ed.. Upon yon tuft. 

1. 26.— That twinki? to the gusty breeze. Only 
Tennyson etjuals the picturesqueness of such a line 
as ibid; cf. 

Below the chextnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue. 

— The Miller's Daughter. 



WUlowB whiten, aapens quiver. 
Little breesoH duslc and Htiiror. 

—Lady of Shalott. 
• II. 33.— My dazzled t^ht . . 

IWIT, While thus before my eye* he ffleaniH, 
A Brother of the Leaves he HeeniH ; 
When In a moment forth he teems 

His little song in giishes ; 
As if it pleased him to dlMdoln 
The voicelcHH Form which he did feign. 
While he was dancing with L'le train 
Of leaves among the bushes. 
1820 <1. m. The voiceless form ho chose to feign. 
1827 OL 33f.) My sight ho daasles, half deceives. 
A bird so like the dancing leaves. 
Then flits, eta (ns in our text). 
1843. The bird my dazisled sight decei ves. 
Our text is the reading of 18,32, as finally adopted in 1848. 

Compozition and publication. As stated by Words- 
worth, this was " composed in the orchaiti at Town-end 
Grasiaere. 18«W." Aorording to Dorothy Wordsworth's 
Journal the poem must have l)een begun in 1802 On 
Friday, March 22nd and 2.-»th of that year, she not«i the 
mudnessand beauty of the morning, ailding, "William 
worked on the Cuckoo poe.n." It was published in the 
second volume of Potnu, 1807. 

Theme of the poem. The Cuckoo. "These birds 
frequent gardens, gi-oves. an.l fields, iu fact any localities 
where their insert fo<Kl is abundant. . . In habits the 
Cuckoo is wild and shy, a tolerably swift bird on the 
wmg, freciuenting chiefly such pla««8 as are well covore*! 
with trees and groves ; and «o shy and watchful is it 
that to approach within gunrange of it is generally most 
diHicult ... The note of the male is the well-known caU 



which is generally heard, and consints of two syllables, 
vh, vh, rather than ku-ku, which, when the)>ird isgriatly 
excited, is rendered iht-ibt-ibt." — Dresser, Birds qf JSurvpe, 
V. 197, 205. 

The Cuckoo had an especial attraction for Wordsworth. 
He speaks of the "thousand delightful feelings connected 
in my mind with the voice of the cuckoo." His poems 
on this theme and the allusions in his works are very 
numerous. In 1801 he modernized Chaucer's The Cuckoo ^ 
and The NiglUingcde; in 1804 the present poem was com- 
posed. Two years later the impression of the cuckoo's 
song echoing antoiig the mountains near Rydal Mere 
called forth "Yt», it was the Mountain Echo." In 1827 the 
sonnet To the Cuckoo voiced the gladness of the bird's 
song at Spring. While the poet was tnivelling in Italy 
in 1837, the familiar voice of the bird greeted him, and 
awakened the thoughts embodied in The Cucleoo at 
Larema. In his last yearn the present of a clock once 
more recalled the delights of childhood hours, and found 
an acknowledgment in The Cuckoo-Clock, 1845. 

Page 37. 1. 4.— But a wanderings Voice. Wordsworth 
descrilies it as a "vagrant voice" in The Cuckoo at 
Lamma. The phrase aptly describes the bird, which is 
heard and not seen It is classical in origin ; the night- 
ingale being rox et praterta nihil, which phrase is 
attributed to the Greeks. The story of Echo, who had 
only voice left, is parallel. — Ovid, Mel. iii. 397. 
IL 5-10.— While I am lying. . . The reading of 1845. 

180T. While I am lying on the graiw, 
I hLiar this reMtletM sliout : 
From hill to hill it suonui to patw, 
About, and all about 1 

181A. While I am lying on the graiw. 

Thy loud note xniitOH my our !— 
From hill to hill it neein'* to |>aHH, 
At onse far off and near 1 




t88(L While Lam \yinfg on the gnwe. 

Thy loud note HiniteH my ear I— 
It HeeniH to All the whole air'a spaoe. 
At once far off and near! 
1^27. While I am lying on the graait. 
Thy twofold shout I hear. 
From hill to hill itneeniH to pam, 
At once far off and near. 
1832. While I am lyinir on the gnwM, 
Thy twofold Hhout I hear. 
That ftecmx to All the whole air'H npaoe. 
A8 loud far off aa near. 

6.— Thy twofold ihout Cf. 

Shout, cuckoo! let the remal «oul 

Oo with thee to the frozen eone ; 

Toll from the loftiest perch, lone beU-biid, toll ! 

At the Htill hour to Mercy dear, 

Mercy from her twilight throne 

Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear. 

To sailor's prayer bmathed from u darkening sea. 

Or widow's cottiigo-lullaby. 

- Wordsworth. Poiver o/ Souml, ii. 
The cnckoo. straggling up to the hill tops. 
Hhouteth faint tidings of some ghulder platw. 
—Wordsworth. Reeuririon, li. 346f. 
7.— From hill to hUl. Ct. 

The cuckoo told his name io all the hills. 

—Tennyson, The Ha iUmt'h Daughter. 
»-l3.— Thougfh babUing:. This is the reading of 



To me, no Babbler with a tale 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou tellest, Cu'^koo I in the vale 
Of visionary hours. 
I hear thee babbling to the Vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers ; 
And unto me thou bring'st a teJe 
Of visionary lionrs. 
1820(1.11). But unto mo. 

L 12.— Ofmioiuuyhoun. The Buggestive and musical 
effect »f a long word aptly used is a iwculiarity of the 
poet. Cf. 



'Or haat thou been mmimoned to the deep, 
Thoo, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
An inconununicable tileep, 

—The AJfliction of Margaret. 

Bnt 8he to in her grave, and, oh. 
The difference to me ! 
— S*« DwM AmoHV the Untrodden Ways. 

Breaking the iiilence of the seait 
Among the farthewt Hebrides. 

—The Solitary Reaper. 

1. 15.— no bird, but an umsible thing. Tennyson iini 
tated this happy turn in describing the bulbul or Eadteru 
nightingale : 

The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not ho ; but something which posseas'd 
The darkness of the world, delight. 
Life, angultth, death. Immortal love. 
Ceasing not, mingled, unroprcss'd. 
Apart from place, withholding time. 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Uuroun Alraschid. 

—HecollectioHH of the A raltian Sight». 

Page 38. 1. 31.— UMubatantial. Suggested possibly by 
Prospero's description of the earth's dissolution, — 
And, like this Insubstantial pageant faded. 
Leave not a rack behind. 

— Bhakspcru, Tempest, Iv. i. 

tmuj. A variant form of fairy. This siielling is pre- 
ferred by the poets to exclude the undignified associa- 
tions of tho hitter form ;- resembling fairyhind in its 
beautiful unsubstantial visionary character. Cf.«, 
To a Nightingale, 1. 70, — 

—Magic cascmentH, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas. In faery lands forlorn. 





CompMitioa and pnbUoitioii. As the Fenwick note 

?SS' ^^™ '"*'." r"'"*" *' Town-end. Grasmere 
I 804] The germ of this ,ioem wm four lines [prob- 
ably 11. l-4._KniKht] composed as a part of the 
verses on the Highland Girl. Though beginning in this 
way, It was written from my heart, as is sufficiently 
obv,ou«. The vague hint in •• written from my heart " 
w made clear by Christopher Wordsworth's note in the 
ifewotr., i. 204f., and the testimony of Chief Justice 
Coleridge giving the iK,et's own statement -(if ««««>.. 
11. oUo, ) 

ISW * '^^ *"* P"''''«*'«^ •" the first volume of Potm,, 

Th«ne. While WonNworth was a schoolboy at 
Pennth, a fellow-pupil of his was his cousin Mary 
Hutchinson I„ 1789, while st.U a student at Cambridge. 
Wordsworth revisited Penrith, where his sister and M^C 
Hutchinson were living. When the poet returned from 
his visit to Germany in 1799, he went first to Sockburn 
where Mary Hutehinson was then living. At Dove 
Cottoge she was a frequent visitor. On the 4th of 
October, 1802, the two were married. '• There was " 
says Knight, "an entire absence of romance in WoixlL- 
worths courtship.... He loved Mary Hutchinson ; he 
had always loved her ; and he loved her with an ever- 
increasing tenderness ; but his engagement to her seemed 
omehow to 1^ just the natural sequel to their early un.-o- 
mantle regard." Do Quincey. who visited I^ve Cottage 
m 1807.«,Kattksof Mrs. Wordsworth with enthusiasmT- 
The foremost (of the two LuliesJ. a tallish young 
woman, with the most winning expi^ssion of benfgnity 
u,K,„ her features, advanced to me. presenting her hand 
with so frank an air that all embarrassment must have 


fled in a moment before the native goodnens of her 
manner. .. She furnished remarkable proof how possible 
it ia for a woman neither hantlHome nqr even comely, 
according^ to the rij^ur c^ criticiHm— nay, generally pro- 
nounced very plain — to exercise all the practical fascina- 
tion of beauty, through the mere cnni|)cnsutory charms of 
sweetness all but angelic, of simplicity the most entire, 
womanly self-respect and purity of heart s{)eaking 
through all her looks, acts, and movements . . . Her 
words were few... Her intellect was not of an active 
order ; but, in a quiescent, re|)osing, meditative way, she 
appeared always to have a genial enjoyment from her own 
thoughts . . Indeed, all faults would have lieen ueutral- 
lEed by that supremo expression of her features, to that 
unity of which every lineament in the fixo«l parts, and 
every undulation in the moving |Nirts of her countenance, 
concurred, viz., a sunny l)enignity -a radiant gracious- 
ness — such as in this world I never saw surpassed." 
— Recolle.ction-* qf Ihi' Lake. PofU, ch. iii. 

Wordsworth's own references to his wife are many 
beautiful tributes of afle<;tioii. In the |KK>ni in which he 
bids farewell in his onrhard-scones Insfore his marriage, he 
closes with the words : — 

A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
Whuse pleasurvH are in wild ftcldH gathered, 
With JoyousnoHM, and witti a IhoiiKhtrnl cheer, 
Will come t* you ; to you herself will we«l ; 
And love the bluHHud life lliat wo k-ad here. 

~ A Fareu-rll, mtL 

Then came two years after his marriage the most 
beautiful tribute ever paid to wife, tlio lines " She. 

In the same strain are the 

MVM a Phantom of Miijht. " 
lines ill The PreJudr : 

Thereafter came 
One whom with tht'o frlunddhip hml early paired ; 
8hi canio, no iiionta phantx>ni tniulorn 
A moment, bin an iiimatu of the heart, 


jvroras— woRDawoRTn. 

And yet a fipirit, there for me enHhrined 
To penetrate the lofty and the low ; 
i£ven as one eHHence of perradinir light 
Shineti, in the briyhtoxt of ten thniitmnd Htars 
And the meek worm that feedti her lonely lamp 
Couched in the dowy gnuta. 

—Prelude, xiv. 

The Dedication of The WhUe Doe of Rylxtotf, 1807, 
c»mmemorateH the deep still affection hiiiiliiig the 
huflhaud and wife, i>rou);ht cloHer to^clher by the los8 of 
children. In 18*24, two poenui addresMKl to his wife 
re<;ord the |ioet"8 dee|)et<t love, and the Hustaining help of 
her faith. In 1H:M, after thirty - six years of life 
together, the poet wrote from hin heart : — 

" O, my Beloved ! I have Anne thee wrong, 
CoiiHeiouH of bl<'MN«dneHH, Itiiu whence it tiprunir, 
Kver loo hvctllew. aw I now perceive : 
Mom iiwo noon did t>aHM, nnnn into eve. 
And the old day whm welcome an the young. 
Am welcome, and hh lioautifnl- in Hooth 
More Ijcatilif ul oh bcin^ u tliiiiK more holy : 
ThankH to thy virtucM, to the eternal youth 
Of all thy giKMlncHH, nevpr melancholy ; 
To thy lartro heart' and hnnible mind, that caHt 
Into one vision, future, prencnl, ixtxt. 

Pace 58. I. •'>.- eyes as stars of Twilicbt The star-like 
beauty of eyes has often been noted. 

<Jr from star-like eyen doth H«ek. 

— <.;arew, JM»Uain Hetumed. 

The poet adds the milder radiance seen at twilight. 

1.8. — From May-tune. ..dasm. 
1838 ed. From May-time's brightest, loveliest dawn. 


■"•lie Hcenid 11 part of Joyous Hpring. 
—Tennyson, .S'i> /Aincrlot and (Jiieen Oiiinevere. 

11. 15-li{.— A countenance. . .as sweet. " Tlicro are 
two [Mssages of that |)oct who is diNiinguislKil, it seems 
to me, frrm> al! others — not by jiowor, but liy exquisite 
rtVA/uess — whii^h jwint you to the cause, and describe to 




you, in a few syllabled, the completion of womanly 
beauty. [Tlie lines beginning, — 

* Thruo yeara she grew in huh and Hhowor 
are then quoted.] 

"Take from the same poet, in two linsH, a perfect 
description of womanly beauty — 

' A oouiitonanco in which did meet 
8weet recordu, promiHei* an HweeU' 

" The perfect loveliness of a woman's countenance can 
only consist in that majestic peace, which is founded in 
the memory of happy and useful years,— full of sweet 
records ; and from the joining of this with that yet more 
majestic childishness, which is still full of change and 
promise ; — opening always — niodcKt at once, and bright, 
with hope of better things to bo won, and to be bestowe<l. 
\ There is no old age where there is still that promise." — 
Semnne and Lilie«, ii. §§ 70, 71. 

Pagre 39. 1. 22.— pulse of the machine. " The use of the 
word 'machine' in the third stimxa has been much 
criticiieed. For a similar use of the term see the sequel 
to Tke Wagyoner : — 

Forgive ino, then ; for I had been 
On friendly turniH with thix Machine. 

The progress of mechanical industry in Britain since the 
beginning of the present century has given a more limited, 
and purely technical, meaning to the word that it bore 
when Wonisworth used it in these two instances."— 
Knight, iii. 5. 

To this might Ikj arlde<l that Wordsworth had Shak- 
8|iere's authority for this sense of the word, — 

Thine evermore, most dear lady, whUst thin machine Im to hiui. 

- Hamlrt, 11. h. 124. 
R0US.SCHU uses vuichine. in the seuste of "lieing." 

1. 24. — between. In 1832 wl., Ixstwixt. 
I. 3().--«n angel-ligfht This is the rending of 1S36; 
that of 1H07 is, an angel light; that of lH4o, angelic light. 




Porm of the Sonnet Wordsworth'^ eminence as a 
writer of Sonnettt requires ut« to give special ooonderation 
to the form of this poem. 

The word wnne/ is derived, as is the best form of the 
thing itself, from the Italian, — mmetto, a short strain, 
diminutive of tuouo, sound. The first Englishmen to 
learn to use the sonnet structure were Wyatt (1503-1542) 
and Surrey (1517-1547), poets steej»ed in Italian literature. 
Among the Elizabethans, Spenser, Sidney, and Shaks- 
pere were pre-eminent as writers of sonnets, as at a later 
day Milton was among the Caroline poets. 

Shakspere's sonnets, however, differ essentially in 
structural character from the sonnets of Milton The 
Shaksperian 80NXKT arranges its fourteen line(4 as three 
quatrains and a couplet, running ahab cdcd eftf gy, and 
the whole rhythu progresses with almost even force till 
clinched and ended in the concluding couplet. The 
MtLTOMO SONNET agrees with the Shaksperian in preserv- 
ing a continuity of rhythm throughout, but differs fnitn 
it in rime-stnicture, in which it is like the Italian form. 
The rimes of the first eight lines are aJMia altlm, hut the 
last six lines rime with great freedom, alwayH, however, 
avoiding a final couplet. The normal Itauan or Pktrar- 
CAN HDNNKT, white himilar to the Miltonic sonnet in rime- 
order, differs from it and the ShakH|ierian sonnet in thfl 
peculiar movement of it« rhythm. The poem is broken 
into a "octave" (first eight lines) and a "seHtet " (laxt 
six lines), uiul the melody rixiiig with the major part, 
Hulmides and dies awuy in the minor; :*> that it may fitly 
be deiicribed in these lines: 

A Honnet Ih a wave of uiolody : 

From huaviiiif wutcrH of the lmpa<Mlonod houI 

A billow of tidal niUHli; one and whnlo 
FIowM In tho "octave," then returning free. 


It« ebbinff mtgw In the " seHtet " roll 
Back to the deepo of Llfe'19 tumultuouM oea. 

—nteodore Wattt. 

These three forms — the Shaksperian, the Miltoiiic, ar.d 
the Petrar«i[u Sonnet — are the standard fomis of Knglish 
sonnets. While they have formal diffisrences, they agree 
in requiring that the poem be of fourteen decasyllabic 
lines, the evolution ot one single thought or emotion, 
inevitable in its progress, full of thought, dignity, repose, 
and splendidly sonorous — 

Swelling loudly 
Up to Its climax, and then djrliig proudly, 

as Keats said. 

Examples of Shaksperian, Miltonic, and Petnircan 
sonnet-forms will be found in the Apiiendix. 

WordHWortli's sonnets, it will be seen, bear the docwt 
relutionship to Milton's, though often the Petrarcjiu 
rhythm is olwerved. "In the cottage at Town end, 
Orasmere," said the poet, "one aftemoop in 1801, my 
sister read me the Sonnets of Milton. . . I Mras particular 
ly struck on that occasion by the dignified simplicity nud 
majestic harmony that runs through nioHt of then,— in 
character so totally different fr«m the Italian, and still 
more so from Shakspere's tine Sonnets. I took fii-e, if 
I may be allowed to say so, and produc<}d three Sonnets 
the same afternoon, the firHt I evf>r wi')t<', except an 
irregular one at school."— Fen wick note to Hapin) the 



Conpodtiea and p wMictt to a . Composed, almcct ex- 
tampore, in a short walk oa the western side of Kydal 
Lake (Fenwick note). This was before 1827, when the 
sonnet appeared in the poet's edition of collected wwks 
issued in that year. 

Theme. The objections to the nonnet are due to its 
exquisitely wrought fonn, which neenw to check pure and 
direct expreasion, and to ita narrow field of fourteen linen, 
whii'h seeniH to limit thought. The latter objection in 
met by Wonlsworth in the Sonnet — quoted in the 
Appendix— A^«»wi /re/ not at their amvtnt'a narrow room. 
A R«uai88unee fonn, too, its revivul in the latter half of 
the eighteenth century nuiy be taken as part of the 
Romantic movement, and the partizann of the narrow 
claHHicol school lot>ked ujwn it with disfavour. Dr. 
Jiihnnon remarked of it, "The fabric of a sonnet, 
however adapted to the lulian knguuge, has never suc- 
ceeded in ours, which, bi ving greater variety of termina- 
tion, requires the rhymes to be often changed." W. here 
justifies the Sonnet by citing illustrious examples of it8 use. 
Pkge 40. 1. a. -Shakespeare unlocked his hewt Against 
Wordsworth's view nuiy be set Browning's— 
ll'iththiMaamf < u 
ShaktHiaare unlocked hU heart, once morr ' 
Did Hhakotpeare 1 U so, the loss Shakes ; " u' j he I 

- - .'louat. 
The quention has divided poets and scholars into two 
camiJn— Hugo, Hallam, Swinburne, Dowden, Furnivall, 
Brandes, rfganl them as autobiogruphictil ; Browning, 
Halliwell Phillipiis, Sidney Leo (in jiiirt), regard t'lem us 
pure poetry. They mim to telj the story of Shakspere's 
love of a noble youth (the E:irl of Southai.ipton? or 
Pembroke?) and of an unknown " dark liidy," (thought by 
some to be Mary Fittou) ; they certainly do tell Shak- 



■pera'i deepni thoagfat on the eternity of beuity and Oie 
oinnipotenoe of love over misfortune, abMnoe, death, 

L 4. — lute. A stringed instmment of music resembling 
ft guitar, but requiring great skill in its use ; once u> high 
favour for chamber music. 

Petrmrch's woond. Francesco Petrarch [pi'tmrk) was 
bom at Arezzo in 1304 and died at ArquA in 1374. His 
father was banished from Florence in 1301 along with 
Dante, both Iwing " Whites" or democratic republicans. 
Avignon, France, became the home of the former. There 
Petrarch saw, in the church of St. Clara, tlie Laura who 
inspired his canzones and sonnets, the faithful wife of 
Hugo de Sade. Near Avignon he wrote those sonnets 
in the Tuscan dialect which give him a share in the glory 
of Dante of having founded a new language. In 1341 he 
received the laurel crown at Rome us the greatest living 

L 5.— Tmso. Torquato Tiis8o (1544-1596), one of the 
greatest and mont unhappy of poets, conquered the 
homage of Italy by his poetic gifts even in early youth. 
He was called to the oouit of Alfonso d'Este, duke of 
Ferrara. In 1572 he wrdte Aminia ; in 1675 he had 
finished his great epic of Jerunalem Ddiixred. Already 
his misfortunes had begun. Fable says that he was 
chased from the court for loving his patron's sister, and 
fiiuilly shut up in a madhouse by the order of the duke. 
Always verging on mmlness, he spent his last days 
wandering among the lUlian cities. Death even deprived 
him of the triumph and erown of laurel tliat were pre- 
pared for him in Rome in 1595. 

Tasso's sonnets frequently have Leonora d'Este as their 
theme. She was to T.w«o, sjivh Hasell, " what the dead 
Beatrice was to Dante— an inspiration, an ennobling and 
elevating influence." 



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1. 6.— Camoens {kam' o enz). Luiz de Camoens (1524- 
1679), the chief poet of Portugal. His great poem is the 
epic Os Limados, The Lmitaniano ; but he is the author 
as well of more than three hundred and fifty sonnets, ffis 
life was full of mishap. He spent sixteen years in exile in 
India, consoled by the memory of his love of Donna 
Caternia Ataida, in whose honour many of his sonnets 
were written. The most beautiful of these is given, in 
Southey's version, in the Appendix. 

The line read in 1827— 

Camoens soothed witli It an exile's grief. 

L 7.— gay myrtle leaf. The myrtle is a fragrant ever- 
green shrub or small tree, with shining green leaves and 
white flowers. In artiquity it was sacred to Venus, and 
used in festivals. 

1. 8.— Cypress. Regarded, because of its gloomy foliage 
as symbolic of mourmng-here of «id meditation on his 
country and his own misfortunes. These gave the tone of 
the Zhmw: Comedy, a "vision " of the Inferno, Purgatory 
and Paradise. •" 

Dante. This greatest of Italian poets (l-lo5-1.321) spent 
alife " fallen upon evil days," amidst the .crr^ble political 
struggles of Florence. The Vita Nuom, whici narm**s 
his love of Beatrice, contains various sonnets ant' cai-^ones 
voicmg some aspect of this passion. 

1. 10 -It cheered mild Spenser. This gentle and 
knightly poet wrote ninety-two sonnets. From the 
eighteenth sonnet it would seem that the writing of them 
W.US a relaxation after the kibour Sf«ntuix,n the Fa^rit 
l^iieen. It is to this sonnet that Wordsworth alludes— 

After so loiigr a race as I have run 

Through Kaery la.i.l. which these six books compile. 

Givo leave to rest me. being half foredone. 

And gather to myself new breath awWle. 

By "dark ways"' Wordsworth seems to mean Spenser's 
misfortune consequent on Tyrone's rebellion ; but it was 



three years subsequent to the publication of the Sonnets. 
1. 12. — Milton. Milton wrote some twenty - four 
Bonnets, of which six are in Italian. The "trumpet" 
sonnets are especially those on Cromwell and the massacre 
of the Vaudois ; those on his blindness, to Cyriac SKinner, 
and on his deceased wife, were written amidst affliction. 

SEPT. 3, 1802. 

Composition and publication. In 1802 Wordsworth 
and his sister Dora, who were living at Dove Cottage, 
Grasmere, made a flying visit to France. Dora Words- 
worth'? Journal gives the following details : " July 
30th. — Left London between five and six o'clock of the 
morning, outside of the Dover coach. A beautiful 
morning. The city, St. Paul's, with the river — a multi- 
tude of little boats, raatle a beautiful sight as we croased 
Westminster Bridge ; the houses not overhung by their 
clouds of smoke, and were spread out endlessly ; yet the 
sun shone so brightly, with such a pure lij?ht, that there 
was something like the purity of one of Nature's own 
s|)ectjicles. .. Arrived at Calais at four in the morning 
of July 3l8t." 

Wordsworth stdtes, in his note to Miss Fenwick, that 
the poem was " written on the roof of a coach, on my 
way to France "; and dated the poem, inaccurately, how- 
ever, in all editions, 1807. 

The sonnet appeared in Poems, 1807. Subsequent 
editions show no changes in the text. 

Pagfe 41.— Title, Westminster Bridge. This bridge 
crossed the Thames almost before the river front of the 
Houses of Parliament ; it was finished in 1750. The 
present bridge was constructed 1854-1862. 



L 4.— like a gmrmait " Who coverest thyself with 
light as with a garment" — Psalm civ. 2. 

1. 10. — In his first splendour. The beauty of sarly 
Hunrise in the country is Lere introduced to emphasize the 
beauty of sunrise in the city. 

1. 14.— that mighty heart. . .stilL This line bums up 
the impressive effect of power and vastness, as held in 
peace and rest. Cf. Ozymandiaa, p. 67 — 

Boundless and bare 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

"Many years ago, I think it was in 1859, 1 chanced to be 
passing (in a pained and depressed state of mind, occa- 
sioned by the death of a friend) over Waterloo Bridge at 
half-past three on a lovely June morning. It was broad 
daylight, and I was alone. Never when alone in the 
remotest recesses of the Alps, with nothing around me 
but the mountains, or upon the plains of Africa, alone 
with the wonderful glory of the southern night, have I 
seen anything to approach the solemnity — the soothing 
solemnity — of the city, sleeping under the early sun, — 

■ Elarth has not anything to show more fair.' 

It was this sonnet, I think, that first opened my eyes to 
Wordsworth's greatness as a jwet. Perhaps nothing that 
he has written shows more strikingly that vast sympathy 
which is his peculiar dower." — R. S. Watson, quoted in 
Knight's Wordsworth, iL 288. 



AUGUST, 1802. 

Compoiition and publication. See introductory no 
to Composed Upon Weslmiiuiter Brldyt. Dora Wonls- 
worth'8 Journnl gives the following details associated 
with the Calais sonnets : — 

"We arrived at Calais at four o'clock on Sunday morn- 
ing, the 31st of July. 

"We walked by the sea-shore almost every evening. 
We had delightful walks after the heat of the day was 
passed— seeing far off in the west the coast of England 
like a cloud crested with Dover Castle, which was but 
like the summit of the cloud— the evening star, and the 
glor^ of the sky; the reflections in the water were more 
beautiful than the sky itself, purple waves, brighter than 
precious stones, for ever melting away uijon the sands." 

This journey resulted in the composition of a number 
of sonnets that are among the finest of our language. 
The present sonnet and the one that follows it were 
composed at Calais in August, 1802. They were pub- 
lished in Poems of 1807. 

Theme. " How simple are the elements of these de- 
lights! There is nothing here except fraternal affection, 
a sunrise, a sunset, a flock of bright wild flowers; and yet 
the sonnets on Westmiiixler Bridge and Calais Sand^, and 
the stanzas on the Daffodih, have taken their place among 
the permanent records of the profoundest human joy."— 

Page 42. 1. 12.— with many a fear. The poet was not blind 
to the evils of contemporary England— its reactionary 
spirit before the prospect of liberal reiorm, its com- 
mercialism, its union with the monarchical powers of 
Europe against France. See the sonnets of this period- 



Written in London, September, 180S, Milton! thou ahoulcPat 
be living at thin hour. Great Men ha>^ been among ug. When 
I have home in memo.y wliat has tamed. The last named 
sonnet seems an answer to the present one. 


Composition and publication. Another sonnet of the 
Word-worths' excursion to France in August of 1802. 
They left London on July 3<)th, at early morning, saw 
the City from Westminster Bridge— a sight that occa- 
sioned the splendid sonnet — 

Ilarth has not anything to show more fair. 
The following day they arrived in Calaisi where the 
several Calais sonnets were written. They returned to 
England on the 30th of August, staying in Loncfon till 
the 22nd of Sepi^ember. 

Wordsworth's, interests at the time were strongly 
political, in favour of republican liberty. The poet has 
himself expressed the feelings that arose in him as he 
remarked the contrast of France and England, the one 
still suflFering from the calamities of the Revolution, the 
other glutted with wealth and given over to the industrial 
spirit. " This poem," he says, " was written immediately 
after my return from France to London, when I could not 
but be struck, as here described, with the vanity and 
par .de of our own country, especially in great towns and 
cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I may say deso- 
lation, that the Revolution had produced in France. 
This must be borne in mind, or else the reader may think 
that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have exaggera- 
ted the mischief engendered and fostered t.mong us by 
undisturbed wealth. It would not be easy to conceive 
with what a depth of feeling I entered into the struggle 
carried on by the Spaniards for their deliverance from 


the usurped power of the I'rench," etc.— To MLa Fenwick 
(Knight, ii. 300). 

To this we may add the historian's account:— 
" Although the debt had risen from 244 millioas to 620, 
the desire for peace sprang from no sense of national 
exhaustion. On the contrary, wealth had never increased 
so fast. Steam and canals, with the inventions of 
Arkwright and Crompton, were producing their effect in 
a rapid development of trade and manufactures, and 
conimerce found new outlets in the colonies gained Sy the 
war."— (Jreen, ShoH HiM., c. 1802. . 

This poem was first published in the volume of Poems 
of 1807. 

Theme. This sonnet and the two following express 
the p<*t'8 idealism, his belief in country life, in opposi- 
tion to the industrial exfjansion of Englanu and its conse- 
quent influences on human life and character. 

Page 43. 1. 1.— O, Friend I etc. 1838 ed. alone reads, 
O thou proud city ! which way shall I look, 
which seems to show that the established reading 
" Friend " has no particular iiersonal reference. 

1 8. — No grandeur now in nature. Read and compare 
the sonnet beginning, 

The world is loo much with us, late and soon. 
L 11.— Plain lining, etc. These words are not vam on 
the poet's piirt. He and his sister (see Introduction) in 
1793 had set about living their best life on an income of 
one hundred pounds. 

I note that a recent magazine this line in 

the following form, 

Hardy with abstinence, witti high thouBhts divine. 

— Marrion Wilcox, Like the Good OoiL 
1. 13.— fearful. Anxiously watchful, lest evil should 


1. 14.— pure religion breathing, etc. Religion, a gentle 
force s.nimatipf; and guiding all family life. 





LONDON, 1802. 

CompoMtion and publication. This sonnet was written 
and published in the Hume circumstonces as the preceding. 

P*8:e44- 1- 1— Milton. John Milton (1608-1674). W. had 
especially in his mind Milton's strenuous efforts in the 
cause of Puritanism and just government, on beJmlf of 
the Vaudois, and for the liberty of the press; his concep- 
tion of the high calling of the poet, his intense moral 
strength, and intellectual greatness; the magnificence of 
his style and the rich music of his verse ; the utter lone- 
liness of his life, when, blind and poor, he meditated his 
lofty epic, while around him echoed the shouts of Royal- 
ists triumphing over the cause to which he had sacrificed 
his best years. See Green, Short HiM., 451 ff., SlOff 676 

There is a special appropriateness also in addressing 
Milton in a sonnet. Prom Milton's sonnets W. first 
learnt many of tlie great qualities of his own. Elsewhere 
he abundantly shows his reverence for his master :— 

We must be free or die, who spoak the tongue 
That ShakeHpearc Hpake ; the faith and morals hold 
which Milton held. 

—"It is not to he thought of. 

Th.-»t mighty orb of songr. 
The divine Milton. 

— 2%e Excursion, I. 249f. 

L 2. —England is a fen. For the other side of the 

picture, see such poems as The Birkenhead:— 

And when they tell you " England Is a fen 
Corrupt, a kiiigtlom tottering to decay. 
Her nervolcMs butghers lying an eauy prey 
For the first comer," tell how the other day 
A crow of half a thouHuiid Knglishmon 
Went down into the deep in Simon h Bay ! etc. 

—Sir Henry Yule (18a)-lf»Q). 

LONDON, 1802. 


1. 4.— the heroic wealth of h«U and bower. Hall and 
bower are fretiuently conjoined in old literature ; the 
former the clwracteristic place of the men, the latter of 
the women. Thus ' ' t! e heroic wealth of hull and Ixjwer " 
means, knightly men and gentle women, richly ei.dowctl 
with the spirit of chivalry, are no more, and their descend- 
ants have lost the right to inward hapiriness. 

L 5.— dower. This inward happiness was the gift and 
result of noble action, as a dower comes by estaolished, 
even inherent right. 

1. 6.— J"- ard Vapniness. Notice VV.'s insistence on the 
inward -va<les his poetry. 

^ Inward eye 
I , tlic bllHS of Holltude. 

— r wa iidered lonely una doud. 
I'hc ha- rtt ot a qulot eye 
That bro<)«l« , id uleeps on his own licart, 

—.1 I'orl'H Kpttapn. 

With a eyo made quiet by the pow-r. 
Of haniioiiy, and the deep power of joy. 
We see Into the life of things. 

— TuUern A bbey, 

L 8.— manners. Not knowledge of eticiuttte merely or 
necesLrily; but ceasing to be "selfish men," being 
heartily considerate of others. 

1. 9. -like a Star, and dwelt apart Cf. W.'s tribute 

to Newton, — 

The Hlatuc 

Of Xewton with liis prism and nUent face, 

The marble Index of a mind for ever 

Voyaging through Htrango Heas of Tliought, ajon^- 

1. 10. -voice whose sound was like the sea. The 
mighty splendour of Milton's blank verse,— the theme of 

many a poet. 

O inlghty-mouth'd inventor of liarmonies, 
O Hkill'd to Ming ot Time and KUjrnity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of Kngland, 
Milton, a namo to resound for ages. 

—Tennyson, liicperinunts. 

1. 14.— on herself. So in 1820, but 1807, on itself. 




Composition and pubUcation. This sonnet belonm to 
the same pe.i,xl as the precedinjr. It was composed i 
18(>ior 1803. and published in Tk, Morning Po»i, \(m 
and Poems, 1807. 

Theme. The {wefs conception of freedom reconciled 
with law and government. Com,«re Tennyson's poem, 
' ' Of old sat Freedom. " 

P»p 4S 1. 4.- «• with pomp of waters." Dowden notes 
the source of the quotation - 

And look how ThamoH. . . 

Glides on with pomp of waters, unwlthHtood. 

-Daniel, HUtory of the CirU War, ii. rlL 

1. 5. -Roused though it be, etc. The rcmling of 1827. 
isnr. And bear onr frelghtfl of worth to foreign lands. 
Koad by which all might come and go that would. 

1. 6. -the check of salutary bands. C >:nj«ro Tenny- 
son s view of England— 

A land of nettled government, 
A land of Jutit and old renown. 
Where Froo<lom slowly brondens down 
From pi'ecedcnt to precedent. 

— " Vou auk me why." 
11. 12-13. -Shakespeare . . . Milton. Note the i«ouliar 
power got by usmg these concrete illustnitions of Eng- 
land 8 power. IVHne exactly the meaning of f e refei*. 




Composition «ad publication. Thm sonnet was com- 
posed in September, 1802, and published in /'oeww, 1807. 

Theme. The theme begins with the fumihar deprecia- 
tion of the commercial activities as against tlie aristocratic 
ideals of the soldier and th j scholar. The poet viewing 
the actual strength and character of commercial England, 
finds his dei»? *on unwarranted. Suggest an appro- 
priate title for e \ioeva. 

Page 46. 1. 2. — Nalloos. The evil iufluenct} of commerce 
on character and national life is a favorite theme 
of idealists, who cite the history of Greece, Carthage, 
Rome, Venice, Holland. Cf. 

ni fares the land, to haxfnlngr ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumula m and men decay. 

— Ooldsmith, The .Jeaerted Village, U. Sltt. 

L 6. —Now. The reading of 1845— previously, But. 

1. 10.— a bulwark for the fse of men. The thought 
of England engaged in the -^iropean struggle against the 
despotism of Napoleon insp. es many of W.'s sonnets. 


Historical note. The influence of France on Switzer- 
land greatly increased during the eighteenth century. 
With the spread of revolutionary ideas, the tyrannical 
rule of the Cantors and the aristocracy was more and 
more resented by the i)eople of the country districts. In 
January, 1798, the Pays de Vaud revolted, and France 
intervened in its favour against Bern. With tlie capture 
of that city on the 5th of March, 1798, the Swiss con- 



federation— an alliance of the Cantonn which had in part 
'«d from 1291— WitH at an emL The French Directory 
esUblished, in place of the Confederacy, a Helvetic 
Republic, 1708, with a brand-now constitution. The old 
Cantonal boundaries were diareRarded, and a new system 
of government and justice set up. Switxerknd was 
looked upon as a conquest, and as such was dicUted to 
and despoiled. 

Different districts revolted against the "dictates of the 
foreigner"; among which Midwahlen was conspicuous 
with its two thousand men against xteen thousand 
French. Its chief town, Stunr, was blotted out in smoke 
and blood ; but thj heroic struggle awoke admiration and 
pity throughout Germany and England. Switzerland, thus 
in French hands, became an outwork of France against 
Austria, and the military burdens placed on her were 
intolerable. The partisans of the old order kept up a 
struggle to the death. In November, 1798, Napoleon 
returned from Egypt, and l^egan to plan the government 
of Switzerland. Fina"- i 1802 he withdrew French 
forces from the country in consequence of the treaty of 
Amiens. Civil war broke out. Napoleon offered his 
"mediation," and sup{jorted the offer Ly advancing forty 
thousand men. By the Act of Mediation, 1803, the 
Cantonal Government was restored, with a central Diet. 
But Switzerland was only a subject state, paying its 
tribute of 16,000 soldiers to the French army. 

Wordsworth's politics. The French Revolution at first 
found in Wordsworth a devoted champion. He liad visit- 
ed France in 1790, and again in 1791, when he remaiued 
in tliat country for thirteen months, witnessing some of 
the stormiest scenes of that stormy time. His early 
enthusiasm chronicled itself in the words, 

Bliss was It in that dawn to bo alive. 
But to bo young was very heaven I ' 

But the September massacres, the execution of the king 



and queen, the deification of reamn, the anarchy in the 
state toiupervd this early eiithuHiann, though witliout 
shaking his confidence in the young Ilopublic. Then, 
when the Revolution became a war of cori'iuest, and the 
supremacy of Na|Kileon ended the anpiratiuus of the iieoplu 
and threatened the liberty of Euro{)e, Wordsworth turned 
film his republican sympathies to oonservatiam, and 
sought refuge from disappointed social ideals in poetry. 

Compositioa and puUication. In the winter of 180fl, 
Dove Cottage, Graamere, having become too Rinall . - the 
poet's family, ho took up his a)>o<le ut Culeorton, in 
Leic« itershire, occupying a farm-houHe on tiie eHtute of 
his friend. Sir George Beaumont. There ho watched v ith 
intense interest the struggle against Na^joleon, us is shown 
by this sonnet and that on Germany, — 

Hiffh deeds, O Germans, arc to come from y^>^ 

The present poem, as the Fenwick note tells, "wafi 
composed while pacing to and fro between the Hall of 
Coleortou, then rebuilding, and the priiici|)al Farm-house 
of the Estate, in which we lived for nine or ten months." 
Written m 1807, it was published iu Poems, 1807. 

age 47. — Title The title in Tht Golden Treamiry,— 
" England and Switzerland, 1S02," is Mr. I'ulgrave's 

1. 5. — a Tyrant N'apoleon. See Historical Note. 

with holy glee. " In 1807, the whole of t'.ie Continent 
of Europe was prostrate under Napoleon. It is impossible 
to Nay to what s{>ecial incident (if any in {mrticular) he 
refers to in the phrase, ' with holy glee thou fought' st 
against him' ; but, as the sonnet was composed at Colpor- 
ton in 1807 — after Austerlitz and Jena, and Napoleon's 
prantical mastery of Europe— our knowledge of the par- 
ticular event or events would not add much to our under- 
standing of the poem." — Knight, iv. 65. 



L 9.— Of ocQ deep bliss. 

The lotdly Alps thenuelveit, 
Those rosy peaks, from which the morning looks 
Abroad on many nations, are no more 
For me that Image of pure glodsomeness 
Which they were wont to be. 

— WordBWorth, Prtlude, xt 

10.— cleave to that. . .left. 


This last spot of earth, where Freedom now 
Stands single in her only sanctnary. 

—Wordsworth, Prelude, xl. 


Compositioii and publication. This sonnet ia the 
8e«.>uud and best of three on the same subject, composed 
iu 1806, and published in 1807. The others begin, 

O gentle sleep ! do they belong to thee. 

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep. 

The subject with other poets. The lines recall numer- 
ous invocations of like nature elsewhere : — 
Iris to the God Sleep, — 

Somne, quies rcrum, placidissime Somne Deorum, 
Pnx anlmi, qnom ctira fugit, qui corda diumis 
Fessa mlnisteriis mulcea, reparasque labor!. 

—Ovid, MetamorphoHea, xL ffaS. 

The lament of King Henry (quoted in the Appendix 

O sleep, O gentle sloop. 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee. etc. 

-IL Henry JV.,Ui.i- 
Macbeth's cry, — 

Methought I heard a voice cry " Sleep no more I 

Macbeth does murder sleep "; the innocent sleep. 

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sicave of care. 

The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath. 

Balm of hurt mindH, great nature's second course. 

Chief nourisher in life's fea^ 

-Macbeth, IL IL 



Sleep, death's counterfeit, nightly rehearsal 
Of the great Silent Aiwembly, the Meeting of HhadowR, where 

no man 
Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are 

unbroken 1 
Silently over that houno the-blessing of slumber descended. 

—Longfellow, Talta of a Waytide Inn, Jilizabeth, 

For Sidney's sonnet on Sleep, see Appendix ; for Daniel's 
sonnet To Sleep, see Sharp's Sonnets of This Century. 

P«ge 48. L 5.— I have thought of all by tunu, etc. The 
reatling of 1845. W. found this line refractory. 
1807. I've thought of all by turns : and still I lie. 
1827. By turns hivvo all been thought of, yet I lie. 
1838. I thotight of all by turns, and yet I lie. 

" Wordsworth probaVily did not quite like the 'do lie' 
of 1845, but preferred it to beginning a line with ' I' and 
ending it with the double i '.owel of ' I lie.' "— Dowden, 
iii. 334. 

1. 8. -cuckoo's melancholy cry. Compare W.'s poem 
To the Cuckoo. The Poets have not always regarded 
the song of the cuckoo as melancholy. 

Thou ha-^t no sorrow in thy song. 
No winter In thy year. 

—Logan, To the Cuckoo. 

Yet the solitary song,, "the loud, guttuml call in the 
depths of the forest,"— a "wandering voice "—justifies 
the epithet. 

1. 13.— between. So 1832; but 1807, Iwtwixt. 




Compositum and publication. Written and published 
in 1815. 

Theme. "The brook referred to is doubtless either 
the Rotha or the Rydal beck [brook]. The Easedale 
beck, a tributary of the Rotha, runs among ' rocky passes ' 
and 'flowery creeks,' and has numerous 'water-breaks' 
and AS this was the favourite haunt of Wordsworth when 
he first settled in Grasmere, he may imaginatively go up 
the Rotha, and then take the Easedale beck up the valley 
pasb • Emma's TkAV^—Knight. 

The Rotha or Rothay flows into Grasmere from the 
north, then from Grasmere into Rydal Mere, then into 
Windermere. It receives its tributary, Easedale Gill, 
from the west before entering Grasmere. Rydal Beck 
drains Rydal Fell, running southward past Rydal Mount 
into Rydal Mere. 

The poet's thought is. How shall the poet look upon 
the Brook— as the naiad of the Greeks or as the visible 
form and vesture of the Eternal Soul ? See notes to 
Inflmnce of Natural Objects. Suggest an appropriate 
title for the poem. 

Page 49. 1. 5.— Water-breaks. Little shallow rapids. 
1. 6.— If wish were mine This is the reading of 1827. 
In the first ed. — 

If I some type of thee did wish to view. 

give thee human cheeks. As a naiad, or nymph of the 

channels for tears. Cf. Shakspere— 

With codcnt tears fret channels in hor cheeks. 

—KiHi/ Lear, I. Iv. 307. 

1. 13.— a safer good. Until i845, this read, a better 



Composition and publication. This sonnet is one of a 
series on ecclesiastical subjects. " During the month of 
December, 1820, I accomi«niecl a . . Friend in a walk . . 
to fix upon the site of a New Church which he intended 
to erect. It was one of the most beautiful mornings. . 
Not long after some of the Sonnets were composed. The 
Catholic Question . . . kept my thoughts in the same 
course; and it struck me, that certain jwints in the 
Ecclesiastical History of our Country, might advantage- 
ously be presented to view in verse."— W., 1822. " My 
purpose in writing the series was, as much as possible, to 
confine my view to the introduction, progress, and opera- 
tion of the Church in England, both previous and subse- 
quent to the Reformation."— W.'s note to Miss Fenwick, 
Knight, vii. 2. " For the convenience of passing from 
one point of the subject to another without shock of 
abruptness, this work has taken the shape of a series of 
Sonnets; but the Reader, it is to be hoped, will find that 
the pictures are often so closely connected as to have 
jointly the effect of passages of a poem in a form of stanza 
• to which there is no objection but one that bears upon 
the Poet only— its difficulty."— Pref. , ed. 1822. 

The sonnet-sequence was published in 1822, entitled 
Ecdeaiaalical Sketches. It contained 102 Sonnets, of 
which Iiwide King's College Chapel is No. xxxiii. of Pt. 
III. Additional poems made the total number 132, of 
which our Sonnet is III. xliii. It follows a general sonnet 
on Cathedrals, celebrating the beauty of the Everlasting 
Piles, and precedes a second sonnet on King's College 
Chapel, depicting especially the efiect of its organ-music. 
Theme. King's College, Cambridge, and the magnifi- 
cent Chapel, the glory of the University, were founded in 



1441 by Heniy VI. (1421-1472). The work of building 
the Chapel, interrupted by the murder of the king, was 
continued with intermissionR by Edward IV. , Richard 
in., and Henry VII., who was chiefly instrumental in 
bringing it to completion. It was finished shortly after 

The Chapel stands on the north side of the court, facing 
the great Gothic hall of the College ; the Cam, spanned 
by a single arched bridge, runs past on the west. Its 
dimensions are noble, — in length 316 ft., breadth 84 ft, 
extreme height, 146 ft. Towers rise at each angle. On 
either aide eleven buttresses, crowned with lofty pin- 
nacles, separate twelve magnificent windows. "The 
interior has a richly vaulted roof of twelve divisions or 
severies, of the pattern called fan tracery. In the centre 
of each division is a pendant keystone, faced with a 

rose The spaces between the windows are filled with 

niches and with rosea, portcullises, and fleur-de-lis 

Throughout the building the stone carvings are of aston- 
ishing boldness, and in the first style of art." (See 
Cooper. Memorials of Camhridge, I. 171 fif., where splendid 
engravings of the College and Chapel are v)o be found.) 

W., it will be remembered, was a student in St. John's 
College, Cambridjre. One of the two sonnets is the pro- 
bable outcome of W.'s visit to Cambridge in November 
and December of 1820.— Knight, Life, iii. 63f. 

Page 50. 1. 1.— the royal saint It is said of Henry VI. , 
that "his misfortunes and meek piety greatly endeared 
him to the common jjeople, who reverenced his memory 
with intense devotion. It was believed that miracles 
were wrought at his tomb, and Henry VII. made an 
attempt to get him canonized." — Cooper, I. 173. 

1. 2. — ^the Architect As usual with mediaeval architec- 
ture, the architect's name is nowhere preserved. 

L a— Albeit " AU (though) it be," al' augh. 


•canty band. The first foundation provided for only 
twelve scholars more or less. The namber was soon in- 
creased and determined at seventy, which is the number 
to-day. These are chosen from students of Eton College. 
L 4.— white-robed Scholars. White-robed, 1822; white 
robed, 1843, 1848. Clothed in surplice for divine service 
in the ChapeL 
1. 6f.— Give all thou canst, etc "I would place first 

that spirit which offers for such work precious things, 

simply because they are precious ; not as being necessary 
to the building, but M offering, surrendering, and sacri- 
fice of what is to ourselves desirable It is a spirit, for 

instance, which of two marbles, equally beautiful, appli- 
cable and dumble, would choose the more costly, because 
it was so, and of two kinds of decoration, equally effec- 
tive, would choose the moni elaborate I it was so, 
in order that it mignt in the same com «8s present more 
cost and more thought."— Ruskin, Seve.' Lamps of Archi- 
tecture, chap. i. 

1. 9. —lofty pillars. Strictly there are no pillars ; yet the 
buttresses of the waiis are fashioned inside like pillars. 

L 10.— self-poised "This most singularly beautiful 
and ingenious structure [the inner roof of stone] is so con- 
trived that it has uo dependence whatever upon the walls 

the whole weight of the roof being supported by the 

buttresses and towers alooe... Such a combination of 
ingenuity with beauty, of lightness with stability, of 
architect- il symmetry with mechanical skill, is probably 
without J. parallel in any part of the world." — The 
Cambridge Guide, p. 77. 

scooped into ten thousand cells. The vii^lted roof is 
divided into twelve parts of equal height, and each vault 
is marked V^ lines converging ("that brandling roof ")at 
the buttresses that support it; these lines aro again out 
b concentric circles, and elaborate stone tracery fills 
every space. This fan-vaulting is one peculiarly English, 



the two chief exemples being King's College Chapel and 
the chapel of Henry VU., Westminster Abbey. 


Composition and publicaticn. Written and published 
under the same conditions as the preceding sonnet. 

Theme The refuge from low thoughts offered by the 
great edifices of Christian art. 

Page SI. L 1.— a perishable home. An allusion to 
2. Corinthians, v. 1. 

L 4.— aisles of Westminster. The abbey church of 
Westminster dates from 616, and in its present form 
from the latter half of the thirteenth century. See Addi- 
son's essay in The SpectcUw, No. 26, March 30, 1711, and 
Washington Irv in^''<j in TJte Sketch Book. 

11. 6-7.— wreath droops. The wisest bow the head. 

L 8. — ^younger pile. The present St. Paul's Cathedral, 
built by Sir Christopher Wren to take the place of the 
earlier Gothic Cathedral — Old St. Paul's — destroyed in 
the Great Fire of 1666. The church, the third largest in 
Christendom, is built in the form of a Latin cross, having 
over the centre a gigantic dome ; the style is Italian. 

sky-like dome. " The dominant feature of tlie design 
is the dome over the central area. It consists of an 
inner shell, reaching a height of 216 feet, above which 
rises the exterior dome of wood, surmounted by a stone 
lantern, the summit of which is 360 feet from the pave- 
ment. This exterior dome, springing from a high drutb 
surrounded by a magnificent peristyle, gives to the other- 
wise commonplace exterior of the cathedral b signal 
majesty of effect The dome .is constructively in- 
teresting from the employment of a cone of brick masonry 
to supjKtrt the stone lantern which rises above the exterior 



wooden shelL The 'ower part of the cone forms the drum 
of the inner dome, its contraction upward being intended 
to produce a perspective illusion of increased height." — 
A. D. F. Hamlin, Hiatory qf Architecturt. 

11. 9-10.— typified infinity's embnu:e. Tlie circle 

has always been the symbol of eternity. 

1. 11. — cross, amongf the stars. The height of the 
dome from the pavement to the top of tho cross surmount- 
ing it is 360 feet. 

L 12.— also. Like Westminster Abbey, the great 
temple of the famous dead. 

1. 13. — mementos. Monuments and tablets commem- 
orating the dead. St. Paul's is the burial place of many 
naval and military oflScers— Duncan, Napier, Howe, 
CoUingwood, Nelson, Wellington, also of Dr. Johnson, 
Reynolds, Wien, Hallam, John Howard, Turner. 

satiate. The archaic perfect participle once frequently 
used Mrith verbs in — ate. 

Thou dient and all thy goods are conflscate. 

— ShakHpere, Merchant of Venice, iv. i. \SL 


Composition and publication. "This, and the other 
poems addressed to the same flower (i.e. Jn youth from 
rock to rock I went, and With little here to do or see) were 
composed at Town-end, Graamere, during the earlier port 
of my residence there. I have been censured for the last 
line but one— 'thy function apostolical '—as being little 
less than profane. How could it be thought so? The 
word is adopted with reference to its derivation, imply- 
ing something sent on a mission ; and assuredly this little 
flower, esjiecially Mhen the subject of verse, may be re- 
garded, in its humble degree, as administering both to 



moral and to spiritual parposes." — Fenwick Note. The 
poet even omitted the stansa containing the line in the 
edd. 1827, 1832. 

The poem was composed in 1802, and pablished in 
Poenu, 1807. 

Theme. "It 'is curiously characteristic that Words- 
w'>rth, who taught his philosophy by examples taken from 
the field, Michael, Margaret, and their like, should have 
exercised his fancy upon the blossoms of the hedgerow. 
In contrast to Tennyson whose idylls were of the king, 
and whose honey was won from roses, Wordsworth went 
to humble life for his people and his flowers alike. He 
made beautiful the 'unassuming commonplace of Nature,' 
and recurred again and again to the daisy, the primrose, 
the violet, and the common pilewort, as parallel types 
to his heroes of the plough." — Magnus. 

Page 53. 1. I.— Brigfht flower. The reading of 1843. 

1807. A pilgrim bold in Nature's care. 

The ed. of 1836 changed the first three lines — 

Confiding Flower, by Nature's care. 
Made bold,— who, lodging hero or there. 
Art all the long year through the heir 
Of joy or sorrow. 

1. 6. — Some concord. The ed. of 18.36 varied this to— 
Communion with himianity. 

1. 8.— thorough. "Through" and "thorough" ^re 
variant forma of A. S. fhurh, which in recent times have 
become differentiated in use. Cf. 

Over park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough Are, 
I do wander everywhere. 
— Sliakspere, A Mulaummer-Xight'a l*ream, ii. L 3ff. 

U. 17ff.— Thou wander'st the wide world about, etc. 
An undertone of suggestion is throughout this stanza of 
the mission of the apostles. See Luke x., I. Corinthians 
iv. 9-12, etc. 



L 28.— «I»o«tdk«L The root (see above) is in Greek 
apodolM, a I upoBtle, "one oent away (forth)"; aptMUUtm, 
to Bend away. 

CompOMtion and publication. "This ode is on the 
model of Gray's Ode to Advermty, which is copied from 
Horace's Ode to Foniine. Many and many a time have I 
been twitted by my wife and sister for having forgotten 
this dedication of myself to the stern law-giver. Trans- 
gressor, inde«d, I have been, from horn- to hour, from day 
to day : I would fain hope, however, not more flagranUy 
or in a worse way than most '>f my tuneful brethren. 
But these last words are in a wrong strain. Wo should 
be rigorous to ourselves, and forbearing, if not indulgent, 
to others, and, if we make comparisons at all, it ought to 
be with those who have morally excelled us. 

"Jam non concilio bonus, sed more ed perductus, ut 
non tantum rect6 facere possim, sed nisi rect6 facere non 
possum." — Fenwick Note. 

This ode was composed in 18(J5, and printed in Poemi, 
1807. A cancelled version, "in all probability the first 
draft," is printed by Tutin in his Wordmcorih Dictionary. 
It is manifestly inferior in quality to the present one. 
Page 53.— Ode. Its form. The word ode (Ok. ode, aido, 
I sing) was primarily applied to a chant sung to musical 
accompaniment. The term embraced the triumphal odes 
of Pindar as well as the simpler strains of lyric verse. 
The simi)ler varieties were favoured by Latin poets such as 
Horace and CatuUus, and have been most generaUy imi- 

EngUsh odes began with Spenser's lofty Epithalamium, 
written under either Greek or Italian influence ; but it was 
the classical spirit of Ben Jonson that made the maimer 



popular. Herrick in the lighter rein, MUton in the 
Krandiow (u in Tht Nativity), Cowley, Dryden, and, 
above all, Gray, in their Pindaric odea (cf. The Bard), 
Ck>llin8 in his Homtian imitations (as in Evening; see Ap- 
pendix), carried on the history of the ode through the 
eighteenth century. 

With the Romantic revival the ode was eagerly seized 
on to embody the highest passion of an age of lyrical 
feeling. Abandoning all attempts to imitate the meas- 
ures of antiquity, the new poets sought after subtle 
harmonies in cadence, variation in length of line and 
statca, and in the order of the rimes. Coleridge's France, 
1797, Wordsworth's Intimationt of Immortality, 1803-6, 
and Dufy, 1806, Kenta'a NiyhtingeUe, 1819, Shelley's Sky- 
lark, 1820, all show the varied form of the ode, at the 
same time that they show the common element, — "the 
strain of enthusiastic and exalted lyrical verse, directed 
to a fixed purjiose, and dealing progressively with one 
dignified theme " (Edmund Oosse). 

Wordsworth took as the model for this ode <i ray's 
Hymn to Adversity . 

L 1.— DanghteroftheVoiceofGod. So dray begins, 
addressing Adversity as daughter of Jove, being of divine 
order, leading men to wisdom. 

Wordsworth's words are suggested by biblical passages, 
as when Moses was to receive the Commandments, " Ood 
answered with a voice " (Ex. xix. 19). D>jty followed 
from the command. 

L 3.— light to guide Cf. Psahnscxix. 105. 

a rod... to reprove. Cf. Proverbs xxix. 15. 

1- 5.— victory and law. Duty amidst the tumult of 
our fears make clear to us our course, following which we 
are given victory over our terrors. 

1. 8.— And calm'st the weary strife. Till 1816 this 
read — 

From strife an ^ from despair ; a giorions ministry. 



L 12.— the genial Miue of youth. Tlie inittinctive 
impultios of youth, which Wonlnworth's piiiloiwiAy 
treats aa of divine origin. Cf. To My Sister. 
I moved among mankind 
With senlal (ooUn«n ■till produuilnant ; 
When erring, erring In the better part 
And in the kinder spirit 

—The Prelude, xi. 

IL ISf.— Oh! if through confidence misplaced, etc. 
The reading of 183tt. 
MOT. May Joy be thelrB while life shall lant 1 

And thou, if they should totter, teach thorn to stand fast! 

18J7. * Long may the kindly impnlso last ! 

But thou, if they sboulu totter, touch thorn to stand fast! 

L 20.— its own eecurity. By its very nature preserved 
from evil influences. The impulses of a happy nature 
» d just; joy, therefore, will guard us from evil passions. 

IL 21f.— And th./ a blissful course, etc. Until 1827 

ibis read — 

And blest are they who In the main 
This faith, even now, do entortaiiu 
1. 23. —this creed. Belief in the guiding jjower of love 
and joy. 

L 24.— Yet seek thy firm support The reading of 1845. 
WOT. Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 
18S6. Yet find they firm support, according to their need. 

Page 54. L 25.— untried. In the sense of 1 Peter, iv. I'i. 
L 27.— being to myself a guide. This tovch of tb^ 
poet's personal history is developed in The Prelud 

Personal Liberty 
WWch to the bUnd restraints of general laws 
Superior, magisterially adopts 
One guide, the light of circumstances, flashed 
Upon an independent intellect. . . 

wished that Man 

Should . . . spread abroad the wings of Liberty, 
Lord of himself, in undisturbed delight 


in my hmxi. . .tiny. The 

IL 2001— And oft wiMa 
iMding o< 182?. 

no? Reacdred that nothlnc e'er Hhould prew 

Upon mjr pruiwnt happinoim, 

I shoved unwekiome taxka awajr. 
VSUk. And oft when in my heart wan heard 

Tbjr timely mandate, I deferred 

The taak impoMd from day to day. 

L 37.— BOcluftend freedom. Liberty not guaranteed 
by law — like the liberties of a town not guaranteed by a 
charter from the Crown. Cf. 

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. 

—Wordsworth, Uoniict, Nuns/ret not. 
L 40— that e»er. Till 1827— which over. 
L 45.— Flowers laagh. Word«worth transfers to Duty 
the gifts of Venus, at the touch of whose feet the earth 
burst into bloom. 


Composition and publication. "Sir George Beaumont 
painted two pictures of this subject (Peele Castle), one of 
which he gave to Mrs. Wordsworth, saying that she ought 
to have it; but Lady Beaumont interfered, and after Sir 
George's death she gave it to Sir Uvedale Price, at whoso 
house at Foxley I have seen it. " (Fenwick Note. ) • ' One 
of the pictures of ' Peele Castle in a Storm' .... is still 
in the gallery of Sir George Beaumont at Coleorton HalL" 
— Knight. 

The poem was written in 180,5 and published in Poems, 

Theme. John Wordsworth, whose tragic death affected 
Wordsworth so deeply, was a much loved younger bro- 
ther of the poet He was born in 1772; he lived some 
time at Dove Cottage; and was drowned off Weymouth 



ill command of the Eaat-Indtam«n, "The Earl of Aber- 
■ gsveuny," 1805. He is "the never-resting Pilgrim of the 
Sea" i'- The Prelude. He i« in large p«rt Leonard in The 
Bmher», and joins with Nelson aa the original of The 
Character of the Happ^ Warrior. See also Elegiac 
Stawuu, isa-.— 

"The Hhoop-boy whiittlcd loud, and lol" 
The story of his death is thus given by Myers : "John 
Wordsworth . . . looked forward to (Jrosmere as the final 
goal to his wanderings, and intended to use his own sav- 
infr>< to set the poet free from worldly aires. Two more 
voyages the snilor mode with such hoiies as these, and 
amid a f lequeut interchange of Ixxjks and letters with his 
brother at home. Then in February, 180.5, he set sail from 
Portsmouth, in command of the 'Abergavenny' East- 
ludiaman, bound for India and China. Through the in- 
competence of the pilot who was taking he. out of the 
Channel, the shipsbrwck on the Shambles, off the Bill of 
Portland, on February fl, 18(>5." "She struck," says 
Wordsworth, '• at 6 p.m. Guns were fired immodiately, 
and were continued to be fired. She was gotten off the 
rock at half- post seven, but had taken in so much water, 
in spite of constant pumping, as to be water-logged They 
had, however, hoiie that she might still be run upon 
Weymouth sands, and with this view continued pump- 
ing and bailing until eleven, when she went down. ... A 
few minutes before the ship went down my brother was 
seen talking to the first mate with apparent cheerfulness; 
and he was standing on the hen-coop, which is the point 
from which he could overlook the whole ship, the moment 
she went down — dying, as he had lived, in the very place 
and point where his duty stationed him."— Wordsworth, 
Letter to Sir George Beaumont, March 12, 1805. 

" Through all Wordsworth's poetry. . .composed before 
the age of thirty-five, tb ire runs a vein of Optimism. . . 



Hitherto human sorrow had been to him but a " ntill sad 
music" far away. But when, in 1805, Nature, with her 
night and tempest, drove his favourite brother's ship on 
the Shambles of Portland Head, and wrecked the life he 
greatly loved, then he learned that she was not always 
serene, but could be stern and crueL Then sorrow came 
home to him, and entered into his inmost soul . . . From 
that time on, the sights and sounds of Nature took to 
Wordsworth a soberer hue, a more solemn tone. The 
change of mood is grandly expres<ied in the Elegiac Stanzas 
on a Picture of Peele Castle, where he says tliat he now 
could look no more on — 

A Bmilinsr sea and be what I have been. 
Yet he gives way to no weak or selfish lamentation, but 
sets himself to draw from the sorrow fortitude for him- 
self, sympathy and tenderness f ol others : — 

Then welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
And frequent sights uf what is to be borne ; 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me here ;— 
Not without hope we suffer and wo mourn. 

That is manly and health-giving sorrow." — Shairp, On 

Poetic Interpretation of Nature. 

Page 55. Elegiac Stanzas. Elegy (Gk. elegeia, a song of 
lamentation) was the name specially given in classical 
prosody to poems written in lines alternating hexameter 
with pentameter. The term in English poetry refers 
rather to the prevailing tone of the poem, but the alterna- 
tion of rimes, which is sometimes, as in Gray's Elegy and 
here, employed by the poet, reflects the classical varia- 

Peel(e) Castle, or the Piel of Fouldry, built on Peel 
Island (between the Isle of Walney and the main land, 
?.w. Lancaster), dates from the 12th century — a massive 
structure now in ruins. 

L 2. — Four summer weeks. The " four summer weeks" 
referred to were probably during the year 1794, when the 


■ \m 


poet spent part of a college vacation with his cousin, 
Mrs. Barker. 

Page 56. 11. 14fif.— and add the gleam, etc. The first read- 
ing and the last and the best. The ed. of 1820 has— 

And add a gleam 
Of lustre known to neither Bca nor land. 
But borrowed from the youthful Poet's dream. 

The ed. of 1827 reads— the gleam, the lustre. 

" Like the moisture or the polish on a pebble, genius 
neither distorts nof false colours its objects; but, on the 
contrary, brings out many a vein and many a tint, which 
escape the eye of common observation." — Coleridge. 
Whence comes this moisture, this polish, this light? It 
is not from the object — it is the special illumination of 
the poet or painter, born of his mind, irradiating the ob- 
jects it is cast upon, till they yield meaning and beauty 
hitherto concealed. 

1. 21. — treasure-house. The reading of the ed. of 
1845. The 1807 ed. has, — a treasure house a mine. 

1. 26. — Elysian quiet Delightful rejiose, like that of 
Elysium, where happy spirits dwelt among groves, 
streams, and fields. 

1. 32.— A stedfast peace. The reading of 1836. 
1807. A faith, a trust, that could not bo betrayed. 

Page 57. 1. 41.— Beaumont, Friend I Sir George Beau- 
mont (1754-1827) of Coleorton Hall, Essex, was "a 
connoisseur, patron of art and hindscui>e gardening." 
He became acquainted with Wordsworth while on a visit 
to Coleridge at Keswick in 1803, and was one of his most 
valued and most intimate friends. 

1. 42. — Him whom I deplore. John Wordswortli. See 

1. 53.— the heart that lives alone. Comjiare the spirit 
pf Lord Byron's verse, 




Composition and publication. In 1820 Wordsworth, 
publishing a seriea of sonnets on theme" suggested by his 
remembrances of the river Duddon, deu.oated the volume 
to his brother by means of this poem. It was printed in 
the second edition of the volume. The ]x>em opens with 
a vignette of life at Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's home 
from 1813 till his death. 

Theme. The theme is that of the man who can rejoice 
at duty nobly done in crowded cities, but who still feels 
he has himself chosen the better part in keeping to the 
honest simplicity of country life, esf cially life ennobled 
by intercourse with nature among the mountains and 
with the dalesmen, rugged guardians of the primitive 

The Rev. Dr. Wordsworth was Christopher Words- 
worth, the younger brother of the poet, born at Cocker- 
mouth in 1774, educated at Hawkshead and Trinity 
College, Cambridge, died 1846, Master of Trinity College, 
Cambridge, and Rector of Uckfield, Sussex. He was 
made Chaplain of the House of Commons in 1 816. At the 
time of the writing of this poem (1820) he was Rector of 
Lambeth parish (see 1. 6o). 

Page 58. — The River Duddon " rises upon Wrynose Fell, on 
the contines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lanca- 
shire . . . enters the Irish Seji, l)etween the Isle of Walney 
and the Lordship of Milium." — Wordsworth note. 

1. 1.— The Minstrels played. An allusion to the old 
custom of the "waits," musicians who went about all 
night long Ixjfore Christmas, playing before particular 
houses, and receiving entertaioment from the people thus 

I' ! 

\ I 


P*** SO- l- '-**• — rustic Powers. Influences of country life 
other than those of nature— customs, traditions, manners 
(1. 65). 

1. 42.— self-complacent innocence. This repeats, in a 
more abstract way, the picture of tlie iwet's daughter 
Catherine : — 

As a faggot sparkles on the hearth. 

Not less if unattended and alone 

Than when both young and old sit gathered round 

And Uko delight In its activity ; 

Even so thLs happy Creature of herself 

Is all-sufflclent, solitude to her 

Is blithe society, who fills the air 

With gladness and involuntary- »ongs. 
—Wordsworth, Characteristics of a Child Three rears Old. 

1. 43.— the grave disguise. The little outward courtesy 
did not evince their feelings. 

I. 46.— names once heard. A touch of personal sor- 
row. In 1812, the i)oet lost his young children— Thomas, 
born 1806, and Catherine, born 1808. 

II. 47f. —Tears brightened. . . for infant A suggestion, 
perhaps, of the poet's personal loss in 1812, mingled with 
a recollection of his youngest child, born in 1810. But 
the picture is a general truth of human life. 

Page 6o. 1. 49.— emerald fields. The moisture of the air 
in the Lake District is very great. The turf is fine and 
thick, " the tenderness and freshness of the green tints 
were something to rememl)er,— the hue of the first 
springing April grass, massed and wide-spread in mid- 
summer" (Burroughs). 

1. 50.— ambient streams. Encompassing (Lat. am7>»cjM, 
going about). The streams are the clear-running moun- 
tain streams about Cockermouth and Hawkshead. 

Fondly T pursued, 
Kven when a child, the Streams . . . viewed 
The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood— 




Pure as the morning:, fi«tfnl, boisterous, keen. 
Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green. 
Poured down the hills, a choral multitude. 

—Wordsworth, The River Duddon, xxri. 

L 51. — Cytherea's rone. Venus Aphrodite (Gk. 
aphros, foam), the foam-horn, was fabled to have sprung 
from the sea-foam, and to have been carried by the west 
wind to the island of Cythera, or Cerigo (hence her name 
Cytherea). Her zone (Gk. zone, girdle) is the ocean 

1. 52.- -The Thunderer. Jupiter Tonans. 

1. 53. — ^heart of hearts. Cf. Hamlet, iii., ii., 78. 

L 55. — Manners. Not knowledge of etiquette, but 
deep-Ncuted principles of which outward actions are the 
expression. Cf. 

Give us manners, virtue, freedom, power, 

—Wordsworth, London, 180i. , 

L 57. — Renuumts of love. Subordinate to "manners" 
(1. 55). The kindly feelings (1. 44) of humanity, once 
wide-spread, have been supplanted in cities, and now are 
withdrawn modestly into the seclusion of mountain dales. 

L 65. — Lambeth's venerable towers. The official 
residence of the Archl)ishop of Canterbury is the greiit 
edifice, Laml)eth Palace, built in part in 1'244, situated 
on the btvuks of the Thames, in the south-western {Kirt of 

1. 70.— And profit by those kindly rays. Cf. 
on Intimations of Immortality, e8jjeci..ily stunzji ix.- 

Those flrst affections. 

Those sliadowy recollections. 

Which be they what they may. 

Are yet the fountain light of uU our day. 




Composition and pubUcation. This poem was com- 
posecl, with its sequel. " in front of Rydal Mount, and 
during my walks in the neighbourhood ; ninetenths of my 
verses have been murmured out in the open air. -Den- 
wick Note. 

It was published in 1870. 

Theme. The poem praises autumn as having peculiar 
charms not possessed by spring, and suggest* a moral 
„ plication to human life. Compare Brownmgs RM^ 
Ben Ezra. Note the climacteric development of the idea. 
Does W. show a lessening sympathy and belief as 
resi)eot8 nature in these kter poems ? 
Page 6i 1. l.-The sylvan slopes. The seen. ^he 
valley in which Ues Rydal Mere. For illustratio p. 


com In Great Britain applied to any cereal-in 
England i«rticularly wheat, in Scotland and Ireland 


1. 3. -trophies. Allusion to the votive offerings hung 
in ancient temples. 

1. 5.— the blue lake. Rydal Me.e. 

1. 6.-mountains. Part of the Cumberlain Mountains 
— I«rticularly Nab Scar and Loughrigg FelL 

1 8 — unic' * by lo^e- -^^ comi»red with the 
great period l-the mating-Hme in spring. 

Page 62. L -2',. ./ho can proviu. Cf. Matthew, vi. 26. 

1. 29— radiant Sersphim. Cf. Isaiah, vi. 2, 3. 




Composition and publication. See note to the pre- 
ceding poem. 

Theme The birda in autumn, compared with the 
birds in spring, oflfer by analogy a lesson to the poet in 
his own life and work. Does W. show here his con- 
sciousness of a change in his nature and his interests, 
and of a decline in his jKietic power? 

1.11. — sociaL As flocking in autumn. 

Page 63. 1. U.— my leaf is sere. Cf. Shaksjjere, Son- 
net LXXiii ; also — 

My way of life 
Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf. 

—Macbeth, v. ilL 22. 

1. 21.— undiscordant diemes. Cf. 11. 23, 24 and 11. 
13-18 of the preceding poem. 

1. 25.— deathless powers. Cf. Horace, Odea, III. 
XXX., IV. ix. and Shakspere, Sonnet lv. 

!• 26. — Demi-gods. In classical mythology, minor 
divinities — especially the fabled heroes, offspring of gods 
and mortals, sharing in divine nature and strength. 

I. 27.— the Muses. The nine Muses of Greece and 
Rome who inspired the various arts of poetry, drama, 
music, dancing, etc. 

II. 28-30.— some defile. W. is thinking, perhaps, 

of Byron or the poets of the Restoration. 

1. 31.— initiatory strains. The reference is to Ctedmon 
(kad'num), the herdsman of the Abbey of Whitby, who in 
Anglo-Saxon verse sang the story of the creation under 
the title of <,'nesis. Cf. Milton's expression of the 
effect of music at the nativity of Christ, in his Ode on the 
Mnming of Christ's Natii'ty. 



P»ge 64. 1. 38. — Alccus {ala^w). One of the greatest of 
Greek lyric poets (61 1 -680, b. c. ). Native of Mytileno in 
Lesbos, he joined in the struggle against Pittocus, the 
ruler of his town, inspiring the nobles with his odes direct- 
ed against the tyrant, was banished and died in exile. 
Horace refers to the "threatening verses" of AlcseuB 
(Odea rV. ix. 7), which suggests Wordsworth's thought. 

11. 43flf.— And not unhallowed. Sappho, the chief 
woman poet of antiquity, in the sixth century B.C., was 
born at Mytilene in Lesbos. She threw herself into the 
sea because of her hopeless love of Phaon. Her Ode to 
Aphrodite shows the passion of unrequited love ("vain 
pursuit "). 

L 48.— iEolian lute. The ^Eolians, one of the chief 
Greek races, colonized part of the west coast of Asia 
Minor. Among their colonies was Mytilene in Lesbos, 
where their dialect found literary expression in the works 
of Alcseus and Sappho. The lute (a stringed instrument, 
resembling a mandolin) was in the middle ages a favourite 
instrument for chamber music. Wordsworth uses the 
word loosely for the Grecian harp. 

1. 50. — Herculanean lore. Herculaneum was a sea- 
coast town between Naples and Pompeii ; with Pompeii 
it was destroj'cd by volcanic eruption of Mt. .(Etna in 79 
A.D. Excavations made in 1752 disclosed in one library 
hundreds of rolls of papyri, containing fragments of 
classical literature. EflForts are being made now to or- 
ganize fresh excavations, which, it is hoped, will discover 
lost books of classic literature. 

1. 62.— Theban fragment As of the poet Pindar, the 
lyric poet of Thebes (522-442 b. c). Except his Tri- 
umphal Odes, only fragments of his work are extant. 
Thebes was in Boeotia, Greece, and was celebrated in 
Greek legend. 

1. 54.— Simonides. A great lyric poet (.556-467 b. c.) 
living at Athens, in Thesaaly, and at Syracuse. He jier- 





fected the elegy and epigram and excelled as well in the 
ode. Only fragments of his work, inspired with high 
morality, have sui-vived. " His couplets — calm, simple, 
terse, strong as the deeds they celebrate, enduring as the 
brass or stone which they adorned — animated succeeding 
generations of Oreek patriots." — J. A. S3'monds, Studies 
of Oreek Poets. His work was well-known to Horace 
(L 58) ; see Odea, II. i. and IV. ix. 

1. 58. — What Horace loved. This is a general refer- 
ence to the relation of the Roman poets, philoRophers, 
and orators towards Oreek literature, from which they 
drew their inspiration. 

1. 59. — Maro. The family name of the Roman poet 
Virgil — Publius Vergilius Maro {m&r o). 

1. 60. — haughty Time. Cf. Shaksiiere, Sonnet cxv, 
" time's tyranny." 




Circumitenceb -f composition and publication. In 
November, 1796, Coleridge had tjiken up his residence in 
Somersetshire, in the village of Nether Stowey. Thither 
in July of the following year came Wordsworth to settle 
in AUoxden, three mUes distant, to be within reach of 
Coleridge's society. There the Ancient Mariner (A. M.) 
was planned and tomposed. The story of its origin is 
told in most detail by Wordsworth in a note to We are 
Seven, dictated to Miss Fenwick :— 

" In the autumn of 1797 (spring of 1798, Knight) he 
[Coleridge], my sister, and myself sturted from Alfoxden 
pretty late in the afternoon, with a view *x> visiting 
Linton and the Valley of Stones near to it; and, as our 
united funds were very small, we agreed to pay the 
expense of the tour by writing a iioem, to bo sent to the 
• New Monthly Magazine,' set up by Phillips, the book- 
seller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off, 
and proceeded along the Quantock Hilla (near Nether 
Stowey], towards Watchet ; and in the course of this 
walk was planned the poem of the Ancient Mariner, 
founded on a drmm, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend 
Mr. Cruikshank [a neighbour of the poet's]. Much the 
greater part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention; 
but certain i>&Tta I myself suggested : for example, some 
crime was to be committed which should bring upon 
the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted 
to call him, the sjiectral persecution, as a consequence 
of that crime, and his own wanderings. I liiid been 
reading in Shelvocke's Voyages, a day or two before, that, 
while doubling Capo Horn, they frequently saw alba- 




! I. 

tronea in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some 
extendin|7 their wings twelve or thirteen (fifteen, Knight) 
feet: 'Suppose,* said I, 'you represent him as having 
killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and 
that the tutelary spirits of these regions take u{»n them 
to revei3ge the crime.' The incident was thought fit for 
the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested 
the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not 
recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme 
of the poem. The gloss with which it was Kubsequently 
accompanied was not thought of by either of us at the 
time, at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have 
no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought. We began 
the composition together, on that, to me, memorable 
evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning 
of the poem, in particular : 

'And liaten'd like a three years' child ; 
The Mariner had his wUL' 

" These trifling contributions all but one, which Mr. C. 
has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, slipped out 
of his mind, as they well might. As we endeavoured to 
proceed conjointly (I Sfieak of the same evening), our 
respective manners proved so widely different, that it 
would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything 
but separate from an undertaking upon which I could 

only have been a clog. We returned after a few days 

by Dulverton to Alfoxden. The Ancient Mariner grew 
and grew till it became too important for our fir^t object, 
which was limited to our expectations of five pounds; 
and we began to think of a volume." — Memoirs of WUliam 
Wordsworth, by Christopht. Wordsworth, i. 107 ; Knight, 
i. 198 f. 

Coleridge's account of its composition shows the philo- 
sophi'; side. His conversation, he said, with Wordsworth 
often turned on "two cardinal points of poetry, the 
power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful 



adherence to the truth -C natur*. and the power of giving 
the interest of novelty by the mo.lifying coj""" «* 
imagination.... The thought BUgge«t«d itself that a 
aeriea of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the 
one the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, 
supernatural; and the excellence arrived at was to con- 
JTin the interesting of the affections by the dramatic 
truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany 
such situations, supposing them real. . . . For the second 
class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life. .. . 
In this idea origin-^ted the plan of the Lyrical Ballads; 
in which it was agreed that my endeavours should be 
directetl to poems and characters supernatural, or at least 
to romantic ; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature 
Inhuman interest an^ a semblance of truth sufficient to 
procure for these shadows of imagination that wilhng 
suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes 
poetic faith.... With this view I wrote The AncuM 
Mariiur, and was preparing among other poems. The 
Dark Lad', and the CAri^^afee;. "-Coleridge. B*ographux 
Xt<emr»a, cii\p. xiv. „ . ., j 

The very memorable volume in which Coleridge and 
Wordsworth thus collaborated was tho Lyrical Ballads, 
published in Bristol and London in 1798. 

The history of the text The A. M. in its present 
form shows the result of many years' changes and 
revisions. The first printed version of the poem, in 
Lyrical Ballads, 1798, was no sooner publislied than the 
work of 1 "Vision began. Later editions show deculecl 
modifications / ' ^•vdy in 1802 archaisms of spelluig and 
language bccom. rarer, and much of the grot^squen^ 
and weakness of the original draft are pruned oif. In 
Sibylliiu. Lem^-s, 1817, these modifications are completed. 
The marginal gloss here first appears, and the motto from 
Burnet, and the poem, with the exception of a few lines, 
has attained its permanent form. In 1828 the pott col- 



lected and arranged his poems, and the text of the A. M. 
had its final revision. In 1820 was imued the last edition 
on which the poet bestowed his {lenonol attention. There 
remained for the edition of 1835 only the redaction of the 
orthogmphy, esiiecially the use of capital letterii, to 
present usage. Our text is therefore founded on the 
edition of 1829, while it follows the orthography of the 
edition of 1835. 

The various modifications of the text, other than upell- 
ing and punct' lation, are noted from the following 
editions : — 

(1) 1798, Lyrical Ballads, with a Few Other Poems. 
London, pp. 1-52. 

(2) 1802, Lyrical Ballads, with Pastoral and other 
Poems. By William Wordsworth, London, 1802 (3rd 

i. 143-189. 
he same (4th ed.) 
(•> ''ylline Leaves: A Collection ■ of Poems. 

By S. :.. .ge, Esq., London, 1817. pp. 1-39. 

(5) 1829, The Poetical Works of S. T. Coleridge.... 
London, 1829. ii. 1-38. 

(6) 1835, the same. London and Boston, 1835. ii. 1-27. 
The gloss. The marginal gloss, which is at times a 

Nummary, at times a commentary of the text, was, as we 
noted, entirely ahnent in the editions previous to 1817. 
On the other hand the earlier editions had the following 
Argument preceding the poem, which was afterwards 
incor|x>rated into the gloss : — 

How a Ship having (Missed the Lino was driven by 
Storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole ; and 
how from there she made her course to the tropical Lati- 
tude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange 
things that befell ; and in what manner the Anryent 
Marinere came back to his own country. 1798 ed., p. 3. 

The Gloss, like the numerous archaisms of vocabulary, 
phrase, and construction contained in the |x>em^ adds to 

' .1 



its archaic character, making it a closer imiUtion of the 
older literature, in which marginal gloe«e8 abound. 

Sources. Ab already noted, the kernel of the story— 
the voyage, and siwctral persecution for killing the alU- 
trooft-aro Wordsworth's suggestion, due to Shelvocke's 
Voyagt (ma A. M. 63n.). Cniikshank's dream, already 
referred to, supplied the notion of a skeleton ship, manned 
by skeleton figures, though the legend of the Phantom 
Ship {A. M. lein.) suggests many details. For the 
description of the Pea of Ice, and of the P.icific, C. drew 
on his reading, — Crantz's HiMory of Orp.eiUand, oic. The 
power of fascination possessed by the Mariner was not 
unknown to the poet himself in his own conversation 
*^aWe T(dk, i. 234n.). The Wedding Guest is the usual 
object "^t ghostly apparitions in the English and German 
literature of horrors contemporary with Coleridge, by 
which, e8|«cially in the A. M. 1798, he was not a little 
influenced. It has also been suggested (Brandl) that the 
witch in Macbeth, i. iii., who would sail in a sieve to 
persecute a mariner,. — 

Shall he dwindle, peak and pine : 
Though his bark cannot bo lent. 
Yet it shall be tenipeat-tost,— 

has kinship with Life-in- Death. Also thab the navigation 
of the ship by the lonely Mariner, the aid of the angelic 
host, the arrival into jwrt, and wclo<nne by the bojitmen, 
are all paralleled by the story that Paulimis of Nora told 
to Vicarins, Vice-Prefect of Rome (latter half of 4th 

Influences much stronger and more certain than these 
last came from the balLid literature of Britain, in whidi 
Coleridge took a deep intei st, along with most of his 
contemporaries in England Germany. No more 
striking proof of the par«> taken in the rise of the 
Ilpmantic Movement (see introd.) by such collections as 


Percy's Seliqriet, can be adduced than the way in which 
the phraseology and constructiona and general style of 
the ballads are preserved in the A . ^f. , one of the greatest 
products of the movement (see A. M. nn. for details). 

To the ballad literature we owe likewise the metre of 
the {Ktem. Only, where the ballads were irregular by 
carelessness, C. was irregular by art, using his variations 
to accord with the mood and substance of his subject. 
His uje of sectional rime, too, while not unknown in the 
latest ballads, shows the exquisite metrist rather than the 
writer of popular ballads. 

Page 67. Title. The Rime, etc. In 1800-5, The Ancient 

Mariner, a Poet's Reverie. 

The use of Jiime with the meaning of tale in verse is 


Other tales certcs can [know] I noon [none] 
But of a ryme I lerned longe agoon [ago]. 

—Chaucer, C. T., Sir Thopas, Prol. 

(AS. rim, number, OFr. rime, verse, rime.) 

The Motto. Facile credo. Added in 1817. "loan 
easily believe, that there are more Invisible than Visible 

beings in the Universe ; but who will declare to us 

the family of all these, and acquaint us with the Agree- 
ments, DifiFerences, and Peculiar Talents which are to be 
found among them ? [What is their work? Where are 
their dwelling-places?] It is true. Human Wit has 
always desired a Knowledge of these Things, though it 

has never yet attained it I will own that it is very 

profitable, sometimes to contemplate in the Mind, as in a 
Draught, Ihe Image of the greater and better World ; 
lest the Soul being accustomed to the Trifles of this 
present Life, should contract Itself too much, and alto- 
gether rest in mean Cogitations ; but, in the mean Time, 
we must take Care to keep to the Truth, and observe 
Moderation, that we may distin^isb Certain from Unoer- 


■ "' '•--■—-'■-■ 



tain Things, and Day from Night." Tr. of 2ad ed., by 
Mr. Mead and Mr. Foxton, Lond., 1736, p. 86 f. 

Thomas Bumet (1635T-1715), from whose Ardueohgia 
Philomphic,r—& treatise on the Origin of Things— the 
extract is drawn, was Master of the Charter-house School 
and Chaplain to William III. ; author likewise of other 
Latin works,— Tfce Sacred Theory of the Earth, The Faith 
and Duties of Chrialiam, etc. 


This archaism is imi- 

]. 1. — It is an ancient Mariner, 
tated from the ballads. 

It was a Friar of orders gray 
Walkt forth to tcU hU beades. 

—The Friar of Orders Gray, L 1. (Percy's Heligues.) 
It was a Knight in Scotland borne, etc 

—The Fair Flower of Northumberland, L 1. (Child s 
Balladn, i. 113.) 
ancient Suggesting not only aged but also belonging 

to olden times. 

•• It was a delicate thought to put the weird tale not 
into the author's own mouth, but into that of an ancient 
mariner, who relates it with dreamy recollection."— 
Braudl, p. 202. 

L 3. —By thy long gray beard. Swearing by the beard 
is not rare in older literature. 

Touch. Swear by your beards that I am a knave. 

Crf. By our beards, if wo had thcni, thou art. 

— Shakspcre. As You, Like It, I. IL 

Cf. Richard qf Almaigne, 11. 32, 38. (Percy's Reliqws.) 
But here it is more than an expletive. It gives pictur- 
esque suggestion of the appearance of the Mariner with- 
out the effort of description. 

1. 3. -and jittering eye. 1798-1805, and thy glitter- 
ing eye. The gUtter of the eye characterizes some kinds 
of insanity. 



1. 4.— stopp'st thou me? 170&-180S, Stoppest me ? 

1. 8. — May'st hear. This omiHsion of " thou " is some- 
what frequent in older literature in questions, and not 
unknown in statements. (Abbott, Shaks. Gr. §§241, 401.) 

It was she 
First told me thou wast mad ; then [thou] cam'st in smiling. 

-Twelfth Night, U. UL 121 f . 

Pag:e 68. 1. 9. h^ holds him, etc. The 1798 ed. reads : 

But e' J' "9 holds th< wedding-^est— 

Thoi . as a Ship, quoth he— 
" Nay, if thou's trot a laughHome tale, 

"Marinere t come with me." 
He holds him with his skinny hand. 

Quoth he, there was a Ship— 
" Now tfet thee hence, thou grey -beard Loon ! 

Or my stafT shall make thee skip." 

U. 9, 13.— He holds him He holds him. The repe- 
tition here and throughout the poem (see 11. 23 f , 25 f , 29, 
S9 f , 68, etc. ) should be noted as a leading stylistic pecu- 
liarity of the A. M. Though used by C. with infinitely 
greater effect and variety than it was used iu the ballads, 
it has still its source in the ballad literature. Compare, 
for example. 

And when the(y) came to Kyng Adlands hallK, 

Of red gold shone their weeds [garmoiitH^ 
And when they came to Kyng Adlands hall 

Before the goodlye gate, etc. 

—King Eatmere, 1. 31 ff. (Percy's Reliquea.) 

Now Christe thee save, thou little foot-page. 
Now Christ thee save and see [protect] 1 

And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe. . . . 

And here shee sends thee a ring of gold 

—The Child of EUe, IL 13, 14, 21, 8S. (Percy's Reliquea.) 

Mak hast, mak hast, my mlrry men all 

Late late ye><treen [yester(day) even] I saw the new nioone.. . . 

O lang, lang, may thalr ladies sit 

O lang, lang, may the ladies stand. 

—Sir Patrick Spence, IL 21, 25, 33, 37. (Percy's Reliquea.) 



'eft, AST&ft (c 

1. 11. ^ray-beard loon. Clown, rascal, from O. Dutch 

loen, a clodhopper. 

Away, away, thou thriftlen« loone. 

—The Heir of Linne, L 89. (Percy's Reliques.) 
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon. 

— Shakspere, Ma,cbeth, v. iii. 11. 

In modern usage, e.g. "crazy as a loon," thejoon 
referred to is the water-fowl, 

1. 12. — eftsoons. A compound o! 
(^fler), again, after ; and «■-'•;, AS. »6m, soon, with adver- 
bial suffix s (cf. while, ^ :— soon after ; or here, at 
once, " forthwith." A" sm from Spenser and the 


Kft80onea he gan apply relief 
Of saklves and med'cines. 

—Spenser, K Q., i. x. xxiv. 

And eke the stout St. George eftsoon 
He made the dragon follow. 
—St. Oeorgefor England, L 299 f. (Percy's Reliquee.t 

L 15.— Three years' child. 1798, three year's child; 
1817, 1829, three years child. 

1, 22. — drop. Put to sea with the ebbing tide. 

1. 23. — ^kirk. The Scotch and Northern English form of 
church (AS. cyric), preserving the c's hard, while Midland 
and Southern English a^ibilated them. 

The touches of Northern dialect inA.M. are significant 
proof of the influence of Northern ballad poetry. "There 
is scarcely," says Percy, "an old historical song or ballad, 
wherein a minstrel or harper appears, but he is charac- 
terized by way of eminence to have been ' of the north 
country e.'" 

1. 32. — bassoon. A reed ' rtrument, keyed like a 
clarinet, but blown from the side by a bent metal mouth- 
piece. It furnishes the bass for the wood wind-instru- 
ments, such as the flutes, clarinets, ete. (Ital. bassone, 
augmentative of baeso, low. ) 




Page 69. L 34.— Red as a rose. A stock comparison in die 


Her cheeks were like the roscH rod. 

—DoveaaJbtll, L 92. (Percy's Religuea.) 

L 35.— goes. 1805, go. 

L 37.— The weddiag-gruest he beat The repetition of 
the subject is frequent in the ballads. 

Then Sir GeorKC Bowes he straightway rose. 
—The Rising in the North, L 109. (Percy's Heiiguen.) 
Our kinjc he kept a false stewnrde. 

—Sir Aldingar, L 1. (Percy's Relignes.) 

11. 41-64.— And now the storm blast, etc. 

1788. Listen, Stranger ! Storm and Wind, 
X Wind and Tempest strong ! 

For days and weeks it play'd us freaks- 
Like Chaff we drove along. 

Listen, Stranger 1 Mist and Snow, 
And it grew wond'roua cauld : 

And Ice mast-high came floating by 
As green as Emerauld. 
In 1802-5 the reading is nearer our text, but still lacks 
the splendid figure of 11. 43-50 ; — 

But now the Northwind came more fierce 

There came a Tempest strong ! 

And Southward still for days and weeks 

Like Chaff we drove along. 

And now there came both Mist and Snow, etc. 

1. 46.— As who pursued, etc. This use of the relative 
who without antecedent is archaic. 

And I will set this foot of mine as far 
As who goes farthest. 

— Shakspere, Juliits Caesar, i. Mi. '18. 

1. 47. —Still treads the shadow. "Still" '.as an 
archaic sense here, = ever. Tlie shatlow of his pursuing 
enemy already reaches his feet, but ever he presses on. 
■ 1. 55.— through the drifts the snowy clifts, etc. Clifts 
(of. /». Ivii. 5) is a secondary form of cliflF, showing the 
inflnenoe of clift (secondary form of cleft). The light 



reflected from the snowy summits cast a desolate splen- 
dour through the great masses of boating ice. 

1. 56.— sheen. Sheen is used, first, as an adjective, = 
bright (AS. actw, bright, shining), as in 1. 314 ; as a 
noun,— brightness, splendour, as here. 

1. 57.-nur shapes. . . .nor beasts. The 1798 text has 
the archaic form : 

Ne shapes of men ne beasts wo ken. 
Ne for nor similarly was the first reading in 11. 116, 122, 
158, 332, 441, 453, 643. 

1, 67._ken. (AS. cennon, to cause to know, from ranw, 
know, can) ; here descry, see. 
Page 70- ^- 62.— Like noises in a swound. In 18(»5 this 

* A wild and ceaseless sound. 

swound. An archaic or provincial form of swoon. 
Swoon is Mid. Eng. swmim, on which grew a d, as in 
sound (Fr. mn), expound, et«. (Cf. the vulgar pronunci- 
ation drownd, gownd, etc.) 

The basis of the simile is the excessive pulse and ham- 
mering in the ears, *hich sometimes precede syncoi*. 
Noises, it is said also, are sometimes magnifieu during 
the attack. 

M.' ears throb hot ; my eyeballs start ; 
My brain with horrid tumult swims ; etc. 

— Coler'ige, New Year's Ode. 

1. 63.— albatross. See Circumstances of composition. 
The passage in Shelvocke's Voyage, which suggested the 
Albatross of our poem is us follows.— Captain Shelvocke 
is describing the ca-vst of Patagonia: "These (Pintado 
birds) were accompan , 1 by Alhitrosses, the largest sort 
of sea-fowl, some of them extending their wings 12 or 13 


It is, however, more interesting to see that the sugges- 
tions of the ominous chamot*r of the albatross, its death 


rr 1 





at the hands of one of the crew, etc., are apparently 
directly drawn from the Voyage. After rotinding Cape 
Horn. Captain Shelvocke continues : " One would think 
it imposRible that any thing living could suhaist in so 
rigid a climate ; and indeed, we all observed, that we 
had not had the sight of one fish of any kind, since we 
were come to the Southward of the streights of le Mair, 
not one sea-bird, except a disconsolate black Alhitroiut, 
who accompanied us for several days, hovering about us 
as if lost himself, till Hatley (my second Captain) observ- 
ing, in one of his melancholy fits, that the bird was 
always hovering near us, imagined from his colour, that 
it might be some ill omen. That which, I supposa, 
induced him the more to encourage his superstition, was 
the continued series of contrary tem{)estuous winds, 
which had oppress'd us ever since we had got into this 
sea. But be that as it would, after some fruitless 
attempts, at length, shot the Alhitrosa, not doubting 
(perhaps) that we should have a fair wind after it." p. 

72 {.—A Voyage round the World, 1719-22, by Capt. 

George Shelvocke, London, 1728. 

For De Quincey's ill-natured comment on this borrow- 
ing, see his RecoUections of the Lakes attd the Lake Poets. 
Wordsworth casts doubt on the borrowing from Shel- 
vocke, "which probably," lie says, "Coleridge never 
saw." (Ed. 1852, notes.) 

1. 65.— As if it had been. 

1798. And an It were a ChrUtian SouL 

L 67.— It ate the food, etc. 

1796-1805. The Mariners gave it biscuit-worms. 
L 69. — thunder-fit. Noise and conunotion as of thunder. 

L 76. — ^vespers. Here used either with its etymological 
sense, — Lat. vesper, evening ; or by virtue of its meaning 
of the evening Church Service, figuratively for evening. 





They are black vesper's pageants. 

— Shttkspere, Antony and Cleopatra, Iv. xlv. 8. 
77.— Whiles. Cf. the adverbial « of "eftsoons." 
12. The form is archaic, used in the ballads, etc. 

Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may. 
For my lyff days ben lare] gan [gone]. 

-Chevy Chase, L 52. (Percy's Religueg.) 

82. I shot the albatross. Baasett quotes a sailor, 
sp«iking of an albatross : " If you shoot one and kill him, 
you may look out for squalls ; but to catch him and let 
him die on deck is a different thing altogether."— Lej^end*. 

etc., p. 449. T, ,, T 

In the Danish Ballad of the Seafaring Men (Folk-Lore 
Record, iii. ii.), the sailors spare a dove that, as a spirit 
of God, brings them safely home while they sleep. 


Page 71. 1. 8.3.— rose upon the right So the marinernof 
King Necas declared that "in sailing round Libya 
(Africa) they had the sun upon their right hand."— 
Herodotus, iv. 42. Coleridge suggests, probably from 
the exi.erience of Captain Shelvocke, that the Mariner 
had rounded Cape Horn. 

The repetition from 1. 25ff., as if there were nothing 
else to notice, suggests the utter solitude of the seu. 
1. 85.— Still hid in mist, etc. 
1798. And broad as a weft upon the left 

1. 90.— the mariner's hoUo ! 1817, 1829, the Mariners' 
hollo ! 

1. 91.— And I had done, etc. The use of "and " as an 
introductory word, and its frequent repetition, are char- 
acteristic of the ballads. 

And from her bended knee aroBe, 

And on her feet did stand : 
And casting up her eyes to heaven, 
Shee did for meroye calle ; 








And drinking up the pojraon ationce, 
Hor life Rhe lost withalle. * 

And when that death, etc. 
—Fair Hoaamond, L ITSff. (Percy's ReHquea.) 

1. 92.— 'em. Not a contraction of "them," but the 
Mid. Eng. Aem, AS. keoni, dative pi. of the third pers. 
pronoun. Colloquial or archaic. 

1. 9.5f.— Ah wretch to blow. These two lines were 

oddtid in 1817. 

I. 97. -like God's own head. 
1802. Nor dim nor red, like an angel'H head. 

CoHRtrue with " uprist." The simile is a strong varia- 
tion from Matt. xvii. 2 ; Bev. i. 16. 

1. 98. — uprist This is properly a present tense for 
" upriseth," aa in 

For when the sun uprist, then wol ye sprede [spread]. 

—Chaucer, Complaint of Mara, 1. 4. 
But it was used likewise as a neM: weak past tense to 

Aleyn up-rist, and thoughte^ 'er that it da we [grows day] 
I woU I will] go crepen [creep] in by my felawe. 

—Chaucer, The Reeve's Tale. L 328f. 

Pa«:e72. 1. 


10.3.— The fair breeze. 1 798- ISai, The breezes 

lu 1817 Coleridge 

L 104. — The furrow followed free. 
changed this line to 

The furrow stream'd off free ; 
remarking in a foot-note : "In the former edition the line 

The furrow foUow'd free ; 
but I Imd uot been long on board a ship, before I per- 
ceived that thi- >as the image as seen by a S|)ectator 
from the shore, . >i- from another vessel. From the ship 
itself the Wake appears like a brook flowing oflF from the 
st^rn." In 1828 Coleridge wisely returned t/i the more 
expresBi . -^ line. 



1. 1 1 1.— copper •ky. Sky of a fiery red colour. 

1. 1 17.— As idle u a painted ship, etc. The representa- 
tion of figures in action, in painting and sculpture, is 
frequently referred to by the poets to indicate arrtHed 


WhHo, pawintr fair. 

Liko to a pictured image, voicelew there 

Strove she [iphlgenial to speak. 

— .ffischylus, Agamemn<m, 1. 233ff. (Swan wick). 

His sword .... seemed i' the air to stlrk ; 
So, as a painted tyrant. Pyrrhns stood. 
And like a neutral to his will and matter 
Did nothing. _shakspere, HanUet, il. il. 4flBff. 

So like a painted battle the war stood 
SUenced. _Tennj on. The Coming of Arthur. 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with -ido blue eyes 
As in a picture. _Te„nyson, Morte d' Arthur. 

1. 120.— And all the boaids. "And" in the sense of 
"and yet." Cf., for many instances, Edward's speech 


Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death. 
And shaU that tongue give pardon to a slave f 

—Richard III., ii. 1. 

1. 123.— The very deep. 1798-1805, The very deei*. 
1. 125.— Yea, slimy things, etc. There is a first sketch 
of this description in an earlier poem. 

What time after long and peetful calms. 
With slimy shapes and miscreated life 
Poisoning the vast Paciflc. 

—Coleridge, The Destiny of Nations. 

Page 73. 1. 127. -About, about, etc. There is a trace 
here of the witches' song in Macbeth. 

The weird sisters, hand in hand. 
Posters of the sea and land. 
Thus do KO about, about, etc. 

— Jhakspere, Macbeth, i. iii. 32ff. 



I f" 

1. 127. — in red and rottt Whirling about in confusion. 

1. 128.— deatb-firea. A luminous appearance hovering 
over putreHcent Ijodies, as in graveyardH, in called a 
death-fire, or dead-light, corpee-light, oorpae-candle. 

Mig'l rm\t» of the dead 

T^nm jte death-fires, round her tomb. 

— Coleridse, Ode to the Departing Fear, 

The appearance of these lights at sea portended drown- 
ing, or indicated the presence of drowned wilors. 

Where lighto, like chamol meteorx, burned the distant wave, 

Bluely as o'er Rome neaman's grave, 

And flery darts at intervals 

Flew up all sparkling from the main. 

— Southey, Lallah Rookh, The Fire Worshippers. 

1. 129f.— water burnt See 1. 274 n. This phos- 
phorescence of the sea is termed Fire-hum or Sea-candles 
in Scotch. In Provence the sea is said to bum, — La 
mer cremo. 

The description is apparently drawn from the follow- 
ing : " During a calm some parts of the sea seemed 

covered with a kind of slime ; and some small sea animals 
were sMrimming about. The most conspicuous of which 
were of the gelatinous, or medvsa kind, almost globular ; 
and another sort smaller, that had a white, or shining 
appearance, and were very numerous. Some of these 
last were taken up, and put into a glass cup, with some 
salt water, in which they appeared like small scales, or 

bits of silver, when at rest When they began to 

swim about, they emitted the brightest colours of 

the most precious gems, according to their position with 
respect to the light. Sometimes they appeared quite 
pellucid, at other times assuming various tints of blue, 
from a pale sapphirine to a deep violet colour, which 
were frequently mixed with a ruby or opaline redness, 
and glowed with a Btrength sufficient to illuminate the 
vessel and water. These colours appeared most vivid 



when the glaw was held to a strong light ; and mostly 
vanished, on the subsiding of the animals to the bottom, 
when they had a brownish cast. But, with candle light, 
the colour was, chiefly, a beautiful jiftle green, tinged 
with a burnished gloss; and, in the dark, it had a faint 
appearance of glowing fire."— .4 Voyage to the Pacific 

Ocean by Captain James Cook. Lond., 1784, vol. ii. 

p. 267 : bk. iii. ch. 13. 

1. 129.— • witch's oils, etc. Probably a picturesque 
invention c* the poet's, based on the superstition tliat 
fires change colour on the approach of spirits. 

1. 132 (gloss).— Josephus. Flavius Josephus (Joseph 
ben Matthias) (37 A.D.-97 or 100), governor of Galilee 
during the Roman conquest of Palestine, friend of the 
emperor Titus, who made him a Roman citizen and gave 
him a palace at Rome. The works of Josephus are: 
A History of the War qf the Jews against the Romans and 
The Antiquities of the Jews. In Titus's speech to his 
soldiers, he asserts that those who die in battle " become 
good demons and propitious heroes, and show themselves 
to their posterity afterwan^ '— H^ar of the JewK, vi. i. 
Spirits appeared also before the destrw*: Jn of Jerusalem, 
id. vi. 5. A passing allusion is also in ArUiq. Jews, viii. 2. 
But there is little about demons in Josephus. Mediasval 
conceptions are more in harmony with the gloss. 

Psellus. Michael Constantino Psellus (1020-1105 or 
1110) was born in Constantinople ('"the Constantinopoli- 
tan"), where he "taught philosophy, rhetoric, and dialec- 
tic wijh the greatest success, and was honoured with the 
title of 'Prince of Philosophers' by the emperors." 
Gaulminusin his Dedicatio speaks of P. as "Platouicae 
disciplinap studiosissimus" (" the Platonic "). His works 
are most numerous, forming commentarijs to Aristotle, 
treatises on the sciences, including .ainhemy. The work 
C. specially referred to is mpl iitfnf*^^* Satfiiwtv Sii^oyoi— 




{Dialoffue Coneeming the Work of Spiritit), edit«d by Gaul- 
minuH, 1615, and BoiNNonade, 18.3K, and trannlated into 
Latin by PetruH MorelluB, Paria, 1577. 

C. may have fpt the suggention of these name8 in this 
connection from Burnet, or more likoly from Burton. 
Anatomy qf Melancholy, i. ii. mem. 1, subs. 2. 

1. 139.— Well a-day. In 1798, wel-a-day ! 184)2, 1805. 
well-a-day ! 

The ballad poetry is fond of this interjection. 

* Now weUaday ! * iw]rth Joan o' the ScalcH : 
' Now weUaday t and woe to my life ! ' 

—The Heir of Linne, XL 121-2. (Percy'H Rrliqur*.) 

It is an archaic interjection of grief, corrupte«l in form 

from vvUaioay under the influence of day. 

But welaway I to fer be they to fecche. 

—Chaucer, A nelida and A rdtf, 1. 338. 

Weiau)ay=:AS. wdld wdl literally woe lo woe, alas. 

■7' '.' ^K 

■ 1 

p; Im 


i^H" » 




Page 74. II. 143-149.— There passed a weary time, 
appears in 1817 ed. 


I oaw a something in the Sky 

No bijtger than my flut ; 
At first it Mem'd a little apeck, etc. 
1802, 1806. So past a weary time, each throat 
Was parch'd, and glaz'd each eye. 
When, lookintr weatward, I beheld 

A something in the .sky. 
At first, etc. 
I. 152. — I wist I Indeed, certainly. The AS. gewiaa, 
certainly, surely, became Mid. £ng. ytoiim, i-winn. I-wisa 
was confused with tpit (AS. initan, to know), past tense 
wiat, and hence was written as here, / wUt, or more 
frequently, / toiss. 

L 133. — As if it, etc. 

USBk And.anitdodg'dawater-Hpritc. 



w«ter-q>rit«. Sprite, a iw«on of spirit. The 

water-sprites aro 

gpiritH that have o're wuU i ^onvomment. 
Are to Manklndo alike inulo volent : 
They trouble Sean, Kloudn. KlvcrH. RrookcM, and Wels, 
Meerex, Lakiw. and lo vo f enhablt waUjry ( uIh . . 
-Hey wood. Hierarekir of the Blexseil Angel h, bk. vUl. p. 507. 
See Scott, Border MinMrtUy, Introd. to Tht Young Twn- 

lane. . , 

L 156.— Ucked «nd Teered. The vessel pursued an 
erratic course, advancing now in zi/. zag courses ug.iinst 
the wind, and again running l«fore it, with the wind 
now on one side, now on the othi r. 

1. 157. -with bl*ck Ups baked. Cf. " Our skin was 
black like an oven Ijecause of the terrible famine."— 1«- 
ment. of Jeremiah, v. 10. 
L 159.— Through utter drought, etc. 
1798. Then while thro' drouth oU dumb we stood. 
L 181.— A sail I a«ull The description of the skele- 
ton ship constantly suggests the Pliantom Ship of mari- 
time suijerstition. Marryat's version in the Phantom 
Ship is well known. The original story is that of a 
Dutch Captain who swore he would round Cape Horn 
against a head-gale. The storm increased ; he swore U»e 
louder; threw overboard those who tried to dissuade 
him ; cui-aed God, and was condemned to sail on for ever 
without hope of port; or respite. Bechst«in. Deutches 
Sofjenimch, gives a different version, which has features 
in common with the A. M. Falkenberg, for murder of 
his brother, is condemned to sail a spectral bark, at- 
tended only by his good and his evil spirit, who play dice 
for his soul. Playing dice (cf. 1. 196) with Death or the 
Devil, for a man's soul, is a superstition that often figures 
in mediaeval art. 

The notion that the ship could sail in spite of wind and 
tide (11. 155, 169, 175) is common to all accounts of the 
Phantom Ship. 



Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form 
Shoota like a meteor through the storm ; 
When the dark scad comes driving hard. 
And lowered is everr topsail yard, . 
And canvas, wove in earthly looms. 
No more to brave the storm presumes t 
Then, 'mid the war of sea and sky. 
Top and topgallant hoisted high. 
Full spread and crowded everV sail. 
The Demon Frigate braves the gale ; 
And well the doom'd spectators luiow 
The harbinger of wreck and woe. 

—Scott, BokOny, U, VL 

The appearance of the frfuuitom ship in the A. like- 
wise followed by disaster, I. 212ff. See also Lonfrfellow, 
Talea qf a Wayside Inn, "The Ballad qf Carmilhan"; 
Bassett, Legends qfthe Sea and Sailors. 

Page 75. 1. 164.— Gnunerejr. Mid. Eng. gramerey, grant 
mercy, from Fr. grant merei, great thanks. Originally an 
expression of thankH, mingled with surprise. Here it 
becomes a mere interjection of surprise. In the ballads, — 

Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne. 
Thy counsell well it liketh mee. 
Oramercy now, my children deare. 
—The Rising in the North, 11. 61, 82, 73, (Percy's Reliq%^es.) 

1. 164.— They for joy did pin. "I took the thought 
of grtnning/orjoy ... from poor Burnett's (a Unitarian 
preacher) remark to me, when we hud climbed to the top 
of Plinlimmon, and were nearly dead with thirst. We 
could not speak from the constriction, till we found a 
little puddle under a stone. He said to me, ' You grinned 
like au idioc!' He had done the same." — Coleridge, 
TMe Talk, May 31st, 1830. 

1. 167.— S** I See ! etc. 

1798w She doth not tack from side to side— 

I. 169.- VVnthout a breeze, etc. 

1798. Withouten wind, withouten tide. 



L 170.— Steadies with upright keeL Moves on steadi- 
ly, not bent over by wind. "Upright" describes the 
keel's depth. "With even keel" is the more customary 

1. 171.— «pflame. 179ft-1808, a flame. 

L 176. Betwixt An archaic and provincial word, 

between. (AS. hetioeohs, betwyx, between, from be + tweox, 
by two,— consequently going back to the same elements 
as "between," AS. betweonum.) 

L 178.— Heaven's Mother. One of the many names of 
the Virgin. See 1. 298 note. Ejaculations of this sort 
are not rare in the ballads. 

1. 183.— her sails. 1798-1817, her sails. So fcer in 

L 185. 

L 184.— gossameres ? Gossamers, filmy cobwebs of 
small spiders, found on low bushes or floating in long 
threads in the air, especially in autumn. (Mid. Eng. 
gossomer, lit. goose-summer, the down of summer.) 

1. 186ff.— Are those her ribs. 

1788. Are' those her naked ribs, which fleck'd 
The sun that did behind them peer! 
And are those two all, all hor crew. 
That woman and her fleahlesa Pheere? 
1802-5 have the reading of the text, save that 11. 188, 

189 read „ „ ^ 

And are thoBe two all, all her crew. 

That Woman, and her Mate I 
1798 then continues with the following stanza, which is 
likewise in 1802-5, with the last line, however, reading, 
They were. . . 

Hla bones were black witti many a crack. 

All black and bare, I ween ; 
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust 
Of mouldy damps and chamel crust 
They're patch'd with purple and erroen. 

L 188.— a Death. A skeleton endued with life. 
(Named from its symbolizing death.) 




L 189. — Is Deatii, etc. Following this stanza there is 
found, written by the poet's hand on a copy of the 1708 
ed., the following stanza, which was first printed in 
Maomillan'a ed., 1880 : 

This Ship it was a plankless thing, 

A bare Anatomy t 
A plankless Spectre— and it moved 

Like I . liaing of the Sea t 
The '«. Oman and a fleflhlees man 
Therein 'at merrily. 
PiHge 76. 1. 19()ff.— Her lips were red, etc. 1708 uses 
{Mresent tenses, are, i>re, is, in IL 190-192. Her in 1. 100, 
inalledd. 1708-1829. 
L 193.— The Night-mare, etc. 

1798. And she is (1802-5, was) far liker Death than he ; 
Her flesh makes <1802-3, made) the still air cold. 

Nig^t-mare. Conceived as an incubus or demon 
oppressing sleepers. (AS. man, hence not connected 
with Mod. Eng. mare, AS. mearh, horse, steed.) 

L 193.— Life-in-Death. Cf. C.'s own epitaph. 

That he who many a year with toil of breath 
Found death in life, may here find life in death. 

C. had his own fate in mind when he added in the 1817 

ed. this idea of Ldfe-in-Death. 

The living death comos only on the Mariner (1. 197), 
who feels its approach, with fear at his heart (1. 2U4). 

L 196. — the twain. Archaic, couple, two. (AS. (uw^^ 
is the masc. corresponding to neut. ttea, two, which has 
been generalized. ) 

casting. 1798-1805, playing. 

L 197.— I've won, I've won. So in 1798-1806. The 
editions 1817, 1829, 1835 read 

" The game is done ! Tve, I've won I " 
It is quite certain that the ibore usual reading, depending 
only on the early editions, 1798-1805, is not what Cole- 
ridge finally approved, and yet, as it is the reading of 
his most poetic period, it is here retained. 



L 198.— «nd whittiea thrice. 1798-1808, whistled.. 
Not without meaning to the superstitious sailor. Except 
in a cahn, whistling is ominous work, likely to bring on a 
storm. And a whistling woman— 

A whistling woman and a crowing hen 
Are neither fit for God nor men. 
"Ouraailors, I am told, at this very day (I mean the 
vulgar sort) have a strange opinion of the devil's power 
and agency in stirring up winds, and that is the reason 
they so seldom whistle on shipboard, esteeming it to be 
a mockery, and consequently an enraging of tLo devil" 
—Dr. Pegge,(?en</eT»an'a Jfogr., 1763. 

It will be noticed (11. 2, 76, 198, 261) that C. uses num- 
bers, as they are used in the bible, in the clas-icB, and in 
popular superstition, for the sake of mysterious sugges- 
tion Cf. 

""Tie nlght-birdes scream'd a cry of dreadc 

The death-belle thrice did ring ; 
And thrice at Arthur's window bars 
A raven flapp'd its wing. 

—The Murder of Prince Arthur, Evann, iv. 118. 

She had three lilies in her hand 
And the stars in hor hair were seven. 

— Roesetti, The Blessed Damoztl. 

IL 199-211.— The sun's rim dips, etc. Night in the 
Tropics descending without twilight is here matchlessly 

These stanzas are represented in 1798 by the follow- 

A gust of wind aterte up behind 
And whistled thro' his bones ; 
Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth 
Half-whistles and half-groans. 

With never a whisper in the Sea 

Off darts the Spectre-ship ; 
While clombe above the Eastern bar 

The homed Moon, with one bright Star 
Almost atween the tips. 



So in 1802-5, with slight changes, —the hole of his eyee, 
between the tips. The 1817 ed. follows the readings of 
1708 and 1805, but in Errata, the poet asks the erasure 
of the stanza, A gtut of wind, 

L 209.— domb. An archaism. The verb is strong in 
AS., utmally strong in Mid. Eng., but weak in Mod. 

L 210.— mooa, with one bright star. A MS. note of 
C's to this line is first printed in Macmillan's ed., 1880: — 
" It is a common superstition among sailors that some- 
thing dire is about to happen whenever a star dogs the 

L 211. — nefher. (AS. neothera, lower.) Lower; under. 

L 212f.— One after one, etc. 

1798-1806. One after one by the homed Moon 
(Listen, O Stranger I to me) 
Each tum'd his face with a ghastly pang 
And cura'd me witL 'lis ee. 
L 213. — quick. This has been explained as living, as 
in "the quick and the dead." This stanza, however, 
has close relation with the following, the two depicting 
the death of the crew, as one by one they curse the 
Mariner and drop down. It is possible that "quick " has 
its usual meaning. Death and Life-in-Death at once 
seize on their own, and the crew have time only to curse 
him with a glance as they die. 

Page 77. 1. 217.— And 1 heard, etc. 

1798-1802. With never a sigh or groan. 

L 223. — like the whizz. Remorse mukes each death a 

reminder of his crime. Imitations of the line are 

The gloomy brewer's rCromwell] soul 
Went by me, like a stork. 

—Tennyson, The Talking Oak. 

And the sonis mounting up to God 
Went by her like thin flames. 

— Hoesetti, TJn BUsaed Damozel. 




L 227.— the ribbed Ma-tand. C.'s note to this line 
appears ia the 1817 ed., when first the poem was pub- 
lished under his own name. Nether Stowey and Dulver- 
ton are in Somerset. 

The figure is in the ballads, — 

Ribb'd like the sand at mark of sea. 

—LordSoulia. (Border Miwstrelay.i 

Page 78. 1. 234.— And never a saint, etc. 

1796-1806. And Christ would take no pity on. 

L 238.— And'a thouiand, etc. 

179B-1806. And a million million slimy thinffs. 

L 242. — rotting. 1798, eldritch,— weird, ghastly, 

hideous, — a common ballad word. 

L 245. — or ever. Before ever, ere. Archaic ; see 

Damd vi. 24 ; Ecd. xii. 6, and the ballads. 

L 247.— heart as dry as dust 

The good die first. 

But they whose hearts are dry as summer duft 

Bum to the socket ,„ , ^,_ „ . . 

—Wordsworth, Excnravon, L 

L 251. — Like a load. 1817, like a cloud, but corrected 
in Errata : for doud read load. 
L 252.— the dead were at my feet 

Have owre [half over], have ower to Aberdour, 

It's flftie f adom deip ; 
And ttaair lies mid Sir Patrick Spence, 
Wi' the Scots lords at bis feit [feet]. 

—Sir Patrick Spence, 1. 41ff. (Percy's Reliques.) 

L 254. — reek. AS. rlcan, to smoke ; here, a secondary 
sense, to smell. 

Page 79. 1. 267f.— bemocked the sultry main, etc. The 
cold rays of moonlight, spread like hoar-frosc, were a 
mocking contrast to the sultriness of the ocean. 
L 208.— Like April hoar-frost spread. 
17B6. Like morning frosts yspread. 


L 270.— ahway. Archaic,— always. 
L 270. — charmed water. As if under magical influence 
(L. carmen, incantation); cf. 1. 129. 

L 273.— water-snakes. "C. seems to have consulted 
various zoological works ; for the note-book of this date 
contains long paragraphs upon alligators, boas and croco- 
diles of antediluvian times." (Brandl, p. 202.) 

1. 274.— tracks of shining white. See 1. 129f.n. Refer- 
ring to the phosphorescent gleam of the sea (or more pro- 
perly the animalculae in the sea) particularly noticeable 
when the surface is disturbed. Scott imitates C. in, 
Awaked before Ute rushinsr prow, 
The mimic fires of ocean glow. 

Those lightings of the wave ; 
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides. 
And, flashing round, the vessel's sides 
With elvish lustre lave, etc. 

—Lord of the Tales, L zzL 
remarking in a note:— "The phenomenon called by 

sailors Sea-fire At times the ocean appears entirely 

illuminated around the vessel, and a long train of lam- 
bent coruscations are perpetually bursting from the sides 
of the vessel, or pursuing her wake through the darkness." 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 
With wakes of fire we tore the dark. 

— Tennyson, The Voyage. 

Pkge 8o. 1. 282ff.— O happy living things I eta C, in 
making the Mariner find through love of the lower 
animals a partial release from punishment for his wanton 
cruelty to a bird, is here in close touch with his age. 
Cow per. Burns, Wordsworth, all show keen sympathy 
for the sufferings of the humblest animals. C. in his 
early career addressed a poem even to a Young Ass, — 
Innocent Fool I Thou poor, despised forlorn, 
I hail thee brother, spite of the fool's scorn. 
" The more the landscape poets of what may be <»lled the 
century of humanity penetrated into the secrets of earth 



and air the more they sympathiBed with the lower crea- 
tures of nature, and demanded for all and each a fitting 
lot." (Brandl, p. 97.) 

L 288flF.— I could pray. This is the medieval notion 
that prayer wrought release from curses and from the 
power of demons. But here humanity, love, alone make 
prayer possible and eflBcacious- . modem notion. 


1. 292f.— Oh sleep I it is a gtaUt thing. Cf. 
For Rhe belike hath drunken deep 
Of all the blesHedness of sleep. 

— Coleridoe, Christabel. 

L 294.— To Mary Queen, etc. So printed in edd. 

1798. To Mary-queen the praise be yevon [arch. , given). 

Mary Queen (of heaven), cf. 

O Mary Mother, be not l«th 
To listen,— thou whom the stars clothe. 
Who seest and mayHt not be seen ! 
Hear us at last. O Mary Queen 1 
Into our shadow bend thy face. 
Bowing thee from the secret place, 
O Mary Virgin, full of grace. 

— Rossettl, .<<w. 

1. 296.— sleep.... that sUd. Older English literature 
abounds in a related notion,— that of sliding into sleep. 

1. 297.— the siUy buckets. "Silly" has two archaic 
meanings— its original meaning of fortunate, blessed, AS. 
gfpjig. Mid. Eng. »edy ; and a secondary meaning, inno- 
cent, foolish, weak. The epithet may be due either to 
the gush of love that has filled the Mariner's heart, or 
to his noticing the buckets, long useless, frail, now 
filled with water. The latter is more probable ; cf . 
After long storms — 
With which my silly bark was toss'd. 




Rife 8z. L 802.— dank. (Swed. dank, marahy groand.) 
Dunp and cold. 
L 903. — dmaken. Archaic in its participial use. 
L 906. — bleiied. Enjo3ring the happiness of heaven. 
L 309.— And «oon I heard, etc. 
1788. The toarinv wind I it roar'd far oft 

L 310. — anear. Near. A form of near, possibly imi- 
tated from afar = on (of) far. This instance of its use 
( = near) is the earliest given in the Neva _, >%el. 

L 311f.— euls, That were so thin and sere. So in 
Shelvocke's Voyage. When the Captain reached Call- 
ftMvia, he found "at best our soils and riggings were 
hardly ever fit to cope with a brisk gale, and were now 
grown so very thin and rotten," etc., p. 432. 

L 314. — fire-fia^ Poetical and archaic, — flashes of 
■been. See L 66n.* 

L 315iF. — were. 1798, are. It has the present tense 
also in 11. 317, dance on ; 318, doth ; 319, do ; 320, 
pours ; 321, and the Moon is ; 322f. read. 

Hark I hark I the thick black cloud Is cleft. 
And the moon is at ita side. 

Page 82. 1. 327f.— The loud wind, etc. 

1796. The strong wind reach'd the ship : it roar'd 
And dropp'd down, like a stone I 

L 334.— To have aeen. More correctly. To see. 

L 337. — *gan. Cf. 1. 385. Mid. Eng. ginnen, an a^^etic 
form of AS. onginnan, to begin. Modem usage marks 
'gin, gan, as if abbreviations of b^n, began. Frequent 
in ballad poetry. 

Then aunswerde him a courteous knighto. 
And faat bin handea can wrinire : 

—Sir Caulime, L 2Sf. (Percy's Reliques.} 



L 844.— But he «ud nought to me. Following thta 
line, 1708 reads, 

And I quak'l to think of my own voice 
How frightful it would be. 

11. 346-8.— I fear thee blett Not in the 1798 ed. 

Page 83. 1. 348.— cortes. Mid. Eug. con, from OFr. 
wr», Lat. corpuB. In the fourteenth century the French 
wr» bccamo corps under influence of the Latin originaL 
English foUowed, and made over cora into corpi(')- ^ro°> 
1500 p began to be sounded. This pronunciation finally 
prevailed, making corae archaic and poetic. 
1. »50.-For when it dawned. 1798. The daylight 

dawn'd. . 

1 359.— the sky-lark sing. 1798, the lavrock smg. 
(Lavrock is Northern dialect for lark.) Brandl remarks 
(p. 202),on the introduction of these touches of nature:— 
•• Coleridge also repeats ideas from his own songs, as he 
makes the contrite singer hear the song of the skylark, 
and the 'nois^j of a hidden brook' ; all is apparently only 
accessory, but it gives the ballad its chief charm." 

For the epithet "a-dropping from the sky," see mtro- 
ductory notes to Wordsworth's Skylark, p. 125. 

1. 382.— jargoning. OFr jargon is precisely the sing- 
ing of birds. 

1. 364.— like a lonely flute. Cf. Evangeltne, 1. 1055. 

Page 84. 1. 372.— Singeth a quiet tune. Between this 
Une and the foUowing, are found in the 1798 ed. these 
gtanzas: — 

Listen, O listen, thou Wedding^^uest ! 

" Marinere ' thou hast my will : 
" For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make 
" My body and soul to be stiU." 

Never sadder tale was told 

To a man of woman bom : 
Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest I 

Thou'lt rise to morrow mom. 



Nerer Hidder tol« wm hsaid 

Bjr a Duui of woman bom : 
The Marinerea all Ntom'd to worii 

A% idlant aa befomo. 

The MarinereM all 'gan poll the rop«. 
But look at me ther n'old [ wonld not] ; 

Thoosht I, I am an thin aa air— 
They cannot me behold. 

1. 379.— slid. Cf. L 291. Frequently used of paning 
smoothly, especially by Tennyson : — 

Fair ia her oottaffe in ita place. 

Where yon broad water alowly fflidea. 
It sees itaelf from thatch to baae 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

— Tennyaon, RtquietetU. 
1. 383f.— The tun ri^ht np above the mut The 
ship has reached the equator, and the power of the Polar 
Spirit ceases. The ship tosses there till the denutnd of 
the Spirit for vengeance is appeased, when, freed from 
his power, it darts northward. 

L 392.— down in. 1798-1805, into. 

1. 394. — I hmve not to declare. I Lave not the know- 
ledge to enable me to declare. 

1. 395. — living^. Conscious. 

Page 85. 1. 399.— By Him who died, etc. An oath of 
the ballads, — 

This i8 a merry morning, seid Litnll John, 
Be hym that dyed on tre [cross]. 

—Robin Hood and the Mtmk, L 13f. 

L 407. — ^honey-dew. A sugary substance found on the 
leaves of trees in drops like dew, exuded from plant- 
lice, or from leaves during hot weather, sometimes drip- 
ping from them as "manna"; much liked byboesand 


Close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

—Coleridge, KvMa Khan. 




P*^ 86. 1. 416.— hia great bright eye. Cf. 

The brottd, open eye of the wUtary sky. 

— Woniaworth, Stray PleatnirtM. 

L 428.— VTithout or wave or wind ? 
1TB8. Withouten wave or wind I 

L 426.— fly 1... high.... belated. It is to be suppowd 
the spirits are to return to some celestial goal, for which 
they here depart. 

L 435.-^-chamel-dtingeoii. Charnel (Fr. ehamtl, late 
Lat. camale, from camem, flesh), a chapel or vault for 
the dead :— " Facing this (Paul's) cross stood the charnel, 

in which the bodies of the dead were piled together." 

Entick, Londtm, iv, 119 (New Eng. Diet.); hence "char- 
nel-dungeon," a vault or dungeon for dead bodies. Mil- 
ton has "charnel- vaults and sepulchres," Comw, 471. Cf. 

Ohoats that to the ohamel-dungeon throne 

—Seattle, Mintirtl, i. xxxlL 

Page 87. 1. 440.— eyes. 1798, ecn. 
L 442.— And now this spell, etc. 

17SB. And In Its time the spell was snapt. 
And I conld move my een : 
I look'd, etc. 
L 462. — breathed a wind on me. Contrast the wind in 
1. 309ff. Even this one, Hweet an<l gentle as it is, recalls 
the horror of the earlier s(«ne (see 1. 458). 

1, 455. in ahade. An earthly wind darkens the water 

by casting up ripples that break the reflection of the light 

Little breezes dusk and shiver. 

—Tennyson, The Lady ofShaloH. 

age 88. 1. 467.— countree. In edd. 1798-1805 the accent 
is marked in this line and in IL 518, 570, countK^. This 
accentuation of the final syllable is the original accentua- 
tion (Fr. cmUrie); it ia common in older poetry, and 


ohancterizeii as well tiic atcltuio >iaUMl«. Thin foreign 
accent even affected at times the uocentuation of native 


DeHpi-aL« her not to me. 
For better ' love yonr little flnfer 
Than I d -er whole body'. 
—Lord Tlu»t%a»ine aiu: lir JOliitor. (ThooMon, p. 83.) 

But none wh mm comeljre aa pretty B eo e ii e. 
—Btggar't Daughter of BedntUl-Oreen, L L (Percy's Reliv^f-) 

1. 473.-- Strewn. OutBiM«ad. 

1. 475.— And the ahadow of the moon. Shadow, reflec- 
tion. 1798 here contains a number of stanzas of interest 
as affording some explanation of 1. 482. 

The moonlight bay was white all o'er. 

Till rUiDir from the aame. 
Full many shapes, that shadowr. were. 

Like as of torches came. 

A little distance from the prow 

These dark-red shadows were ; 
Bat soon I saw that my own flesh 

Was red as in a glare. 

I tnm'd my head in fear and dread. 

And by the holy rood. 
The bodies had advanc'd, and now 

Before the ma^t they stood. 

They lifted up their stiff right arms. 
They held ttiem straight and tight ; 

And each right-rjm burnt like a torch, 
A torch that's borne upri^t. 

Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on 
In the rud =uid smoky light. 

I pray'd and turn'd my head away 

Forth looking as before. 
There was no breeze upon the bay. 

No wave aga> int the shore. 

The rock shone bright, et& 

L 482.— shadowB. Shades, spirits. 



Page S9. L 487.— Oh, CSuistI etc. Cf. 

O Christ I H w»B a griefe to iks. 

-VK »» <'haae (Mo<*ern>. (Heny's HrHquet.) 

L 489.— by the holy rood I An oAth frr' the ballads. 
Robin replied, aow by the rude [roo«tl. 

—Robin (I iMakvne,\.^ (Percy's Be««ii««.l 

The rood is the cross of Christ AS. rUd, cross. 

L 490.— A Mnph-nuui. Seraphs are winged angels of 
the highest order, worshipfiing Jehovah and acting as his 
messengers ai d ministers through the earth. (Heb. 

tirv/ph, V»wrn.) 

Seraph, i f we but retyre 
To the words force, im porteth nought sav e Fire. 

— Heywood, Uitrarehie of thr Blftd A ngtU, p. 217. 

L 500.— fct soon. 1798, Eftsouea. 
L .Wl.— cheer. Hail. 

L 6<«.— And I i«w a boat appear. 17«H continues, 
Then vanished all the lovely lights ; 

The bodies rose anew : 
With siletit pace, each to his place. 

Came back th sfhastly -w. 
The wind, that Kitade nor motion me^e. 
On me atont ^t blew. 
But in a copy of the ' "»>* ed., this stanaa is crossp- 
and the following substituted on rh* margin,— 
Then vanish'd all the lovely lighte. 

The spirits of the air. 
No some of mortal men were they, 
But sp . i--^ bright and fai- 

(t itBt published in J cmlllan's ed., 1880. 

1_ 50g._the heroxit Th» picturesque ; .-rsonagP of um 
hermit is frequentl . found in t e bellads. '■' -^ Ev«n> . 
voL iv.) 

pgm JO. 1. 512.— shrieTe, An cbsolete foi-m of shrive 
(AH. acrifan, to prescribe penance). To hear coiifession, 
impose penance, and ^rant aVisolution of sin. lu 8pen- 





ser, Shephearch Calender, Aagust, nchrieve rimeB with 


It fell upon H holly eve. 

Hey, ho, hollldaye t 
When holly fathers wont to Rhrievo ; 
Now gynneth thia rouudelaye. 


L 517. — marineres. Thin is the usual spelling through- 
out A. M., 1798, and is retained here because of the 

1. 624.-1 trow (i»operly, tr6). (AS. trSotwon, to trust) 
I think, I supposa 

Gallant men I trow you bee : 
—TkeRutinaintheNorth,im. {Percy's RelW**) 

1. 529.— The planka look warped I This is the reading 
1798-1805, and undoubtedly correct; yet 1817-1835 read 

The plankB looked warp'd ! 
and are followed by almost every later edition. 

Ptgt 91. L 638.— Brown tkeletoiu. 1798-1817 read. The 
skeletons; hub Errata in 1817 : for The r. Brown. 
L 536.— itry-tod. A thick bush, usually of ivy. 
And, like an owle, by night to goe abroad, 
RooRted aU day within an ivie tod. 
-Drayton, Poems, p. 2M (ed. 1«S7). So also Scott, Antiq., xxL 
1. 552.— Like one that hath been aetren daya drowned. 
" The bodies of those who were drowned, but not recov- 
ered, were supposed to come to the surface of the water 
on the ninth day."— Gregor, Folk-lore qfthe NorthEait qf 
Scotland, p. 208. In the south decomposition would set 
in earlier and shorten the time when the body would 
Page 93. L 559.— telling of the aound. Kesounding, 

L 670. — all in my own countree. 1798, my own 
oountr^ "All in " constitutes a poetical {dirase, usually 




introdacing a aoenic or local touch : 

AU in the blue unclouded •weather, 
Thick-JeweU'dBhone the saddle-leather. 

TennyMP, The Lady of Bkalott. 

All In an oriel on the summer ride. 
Vine-clad, of A rthur's palace they met. 

XfumywTL, Lancelot and Blaine. 

L675.-crortedlii«brow. The sign of the cross, holy 
water, prayers, the name of God or of Christ were aU 
destructive of Satanic power. 

The Crosses signe (salth Athanaslus) they 
Cannot endure, it puts them to dismay. 
-Heywood, HUrarehie of the Bles»ed AngeU, Bk. ix. p. 881. 
L 877.-Whiit nuumer of num. 1798-1806 have the 
more archaic reading, 

What manner man art thou I 

Page 93. 1. 682ff.— Since tHen, etc. 

1788. Since then, at an uncertain hour 
Now often and now fewer. 
That anffuish comes and makes me tell 
My ghastly adventure. 
L 886.-I p«s, like night, from Und to tand. There 
is here a touch of the medieval lefecnd of the Wandering 
Pare 94. L 610«f.-lmt th« I tdL etc. "Mrs. Barbauld 
^ce told me that she admired the Ancient Martner very 
much, but that there were two faults in it.-it was im- 
probable, and had not a moral As for the improbabihty. 
I owned that that might admit some question ; but as to 
the want of a moral. I told her that in my judpnent the 
poem had too much ; and that the only, or chief fault, if 
Imight say so. was thsT obtrusion of the moral sentiment 
BO openly on the reader a* a principle or cause of action 
in a work of such pure imagination. It ought to have no 
more moral than the Arabian Nights' tale."-Colendge, 
Tabk Talk, May 31, 183a 



la the Jowm. qf aptadativt PhU., 14.S271E, Gertrnde 
Garrigues endeavours to allegorise the ^. JIT., as de|Mct- 
ing the loss of theAnnocence of ignoranoA and the return, 
through the nedifim of sin and doubt, ta'^mscious xjrtue 
and belief:— "He stoppeth one of threeT^Many are 
called, but few are chosen. " The ship was cheered," 
Man commences the royage of life. "And now the 
storm-blast came," The world, with its buffets, confrontrt 
him, etc., etc. In the light of C. s own statement much 
of this theorizing vanishes. The moral in the ^. JT., as 
in all greet art, is implicit in the story. 

L 623.— i vlora. Deprived, bereft. Archaic and poeti- 
cal in this ense. (Forlorn s/or{orvn, past part of/or- 
feoMn, to lose utterly.) 

1. 624. — sadder. Made more serious by his experience 
of depths of human life hitherto unsuspected. 







The KinK sits in Dumferling toune, 
Drinkingr his blude-red wine: 

"O whar will I get gude sailor 
To sail thte ship of mine?" 

Up and spake an eldem' knlcht*, 
Sat at the kings licht kne: 

"Sir Patrick Spence Is the best sailor 
That sails upon the sea." 

The king has written a braid letter' 
And signed It wl' his hand. 

And sent It to Sir Patrick Spence, 
Was walking on the sand. 

The first line that Sir Patrick red, 
A loud lauch* lauched he: 

The next line that Sir Patrick red, 
The telr blinded his ee.* 



"O wha Is this has don' this deld. 

This 111 deld done lo me; 
TO send me out this time o* the yc.r 

To sail upon the se? 

"Mak haste, mak haste, my mlrry men all. 

Our guld schlp sails the mome." 
"O say na sae, my master delr. 

For I felr a deadlle storme. 


•The irand old b»ll»d of Sir Patrick fPe""- . „^ 
I Aced. a KnJ«ht. 8 Brosd (open) letter. 4 Laugh. 8 Eye. 


"Late, late yestreen* I saw the new moone 25 

Wi' the auld moone in hlr arme; 
And I felr, I felr, my delr master. 

That we will com' to harme." 

Oour BcotB nobles wer richt laitb' 

To wet their cork-helld schoone; 8D 

But lane owre a' the play wer playd 

Tkair hats they swam aboone.* 

O langr, lans may their ladies sit. 

Wr thair fans into their hand. 
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence 86 

Cum sailing to the land. 

O lans, lang may the ladles stand, 

Wi' thalr gold kems* in their hair. 
Waiting for their ain deir lords, 

For they'll se thame na malr. 40 

Have owre,** have owre to Aberdour," 

It's fifty fadom delp; 
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence 

Wi' the Scots lords at bis felt. 

—From Percj/'s "Beliquet." 



An Allegobt. 

On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
(I knew not where, but 'twas dome faery place) 
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sail8 outspread. 
Two lovely children run an endless race, 

A sister and ■■< brother! 

That far outstrlpp'd the other; 
Tet even runs she with reverted face. 
And looks and listens for the boy behind: 

For he, alas! Is blind! 
O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd. 
And knows not whether he is first or last. 

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

6 Yeaterday evenins. 7 Ix>ath. R On the iurtace. 9 Combi. 
Half over. 11 A vlllave on tbe Forth. 





JJtel I know not what thou art, 

But know that thou and I muist part; 

And when, or how, or where we met, 

I own to nie's a secret yet. 

But this I know, when thou art fled, 6 

Where'er they lay these limbs, this head. 

No clod so valueless shall be. 

As all that then remains of me. 

O whither, whither dost thou fly. 

Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 10 

And in this strangre divorce. 
Ah! tell where I must seek this compound I? 

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, 

From whence thy essence came. 
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed IS 

From matter's base, encumbering weed? 

Or dost thou, hid from sight. 

Walt, like some spell-bound knlg'.it. 
Though blank oblivious years the appointed hour, 
To break thy trance and re-assume thy -power! 20 

Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? 
O say what art thou, when no tnore thou'rt thee? 

Life! we've been long together. 

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 

'T is hard to part when friends are dear; 25 

Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time; 
Say not good night, but In some brighter clime 
Bid me good morning. 

—Mrs. Barbauld (1743-1825). 


Jnder the wide and starry sky. 

Dig the grave and let me He. 
Olad did I live, and gladly die, 

And I laid me down with a will. 

This be the verse you grave for me: 
Here he lies where he longed to be; 

Home is the sailor from the sea. 
And the hunter home from the hill. 

— Robert Lovia Stevenson. 




What la a sonnet? 'Tis a pearly ataell 
That murmura of the far-off murmuring aea; 
A precious Jewel carved most curiously; 

It la a little picture painted well. 

What Is a sonnet? 'Tls the tear that fell 

From a great poet's ecstasy; 

A two-edged sword, a star, a song— ah me! 
Sometimes a heavy tolling funeral bell. 

This was the name that shook with Dante's breath. 

The solemn organ whereon Milton played, 
And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow 
A sea is this— beware who ventureth! 
For like a fiord the narrow flood is laid 
Deep as mid ocean to sheer mountain walls. 

—U. W. Oilder. 




He left the upland lawns and serene air 
Wherefrom his soul her noble nurture drew, 
And reared h'.r helm among the unquiet crew 

Battling beneath; the morning radiance rare 

Of his young brow amid the tumult there. 
Grew grim with sulphurous dust and sanguine 

Tet through all soilure they who marked him 
The signs of his life's dayspring calm and fair. 

But when peace came, peace fouler far than war. 

And mirth more dissonant than battle's tone. 

He with a scornful laugh of his clear soul. 

Back to his mountain clomb, now bleak and frore. 

And with the awful night, he dwelt alone 

In darkness, listening to the thunder's roll. 

— Emeat Myera. 





Come, Sleep! O Pleep, the certain knot of peace 
The bultlng-plaee' of wit. the balm of woe, 

The poor man's wealth, the prl»oner's release, 
Th' Indifferent Judge between the high and low. 

With shield of proof, shield me from out the press 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: 

O make in me thost civil wars to cease; 

iwlll good tribute pay. If thou do so. 
ke thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest l>ed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head: ... 

And If these things, as being there by right. 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
—Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586), in "Astrophel and 



(2. Henry IV., III., 1., 6ff.) 

How many thousands of my poorest subjects 

Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep. 

Nature's soft nurse, how have 1 frlghteu thee. 

That thou no more wilt weigh these eyelids down 

And steep my senses In forgetfulnesn? 

Why rather. Sleep, llest thou In smoky cribs. 

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee 

And hush'd with bussing night-flies to thy slumber, 

Than in the perfumed chambeTS of the great, 

Under the canopies of costly state. 

And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody! 

O thou dull god, why llest thou with the vile 

In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch 

A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell? 

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 

Seal up the ship-boy's eyes and rock his brain 

In cradle of the rude, Imperious surge 

And in the visitation of the wlndx, 

Who take the ruffian billows by the top. 

CurllniBr their monstrous heads and hanging them 

With tleafenlng clamour in the slippery clouds, 

That, with the hurly. death Itself awakes? 




1 Place of refrestament. 


Carat thou, O partial alecp, vtv« thy repose 
To the wet aea-bojr In an hour eo rude. 
And In tlie calmest and most etUleat niarht. 
With all appliances and means to boot. 
Deny It to a klnsT Then, happy low. He downf 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

— Shakapere. 



Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere. 

Bold In maternal "Nature's care. 

And all the long years through the heir 

Of Joy or sorrow; 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity. 
Given to no other flower I see 

The forest thorough! 

Is it that Man Is soon deprestT • 

A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest. 10 

Does little on his memory rest. 

Or on his reason, 
And Thou would'st teach him how to And 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hoi>e for times that are unkind 16 

And every season. 

Thou wander'st the wide world about 
Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt. 
With friends to greet thee, or without, 

Tet pleased and willing; 
Meek, yielding to (he occasion's call. 
And all things suffering from all. 
Thy function apostolical. 

In peace fulfilling. 

— Word»\rnrik. 



Wken a mounting kylark sings 
In the Bun-lit su mer mom, 

I know that heavai is «P on high. 
And on earth are fields of com. 

Bat when a nightingale sings 
In the moon-lit summer oven, 

I know not if earth is merely earth. 
Only that heaven m heaven. 



Bird of the wlldemesa, 
Blithew>me and cumberlew. 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland anfl leai 
Emblem of happlneas. 
Bleat is thy dwelling-place— 

O to abide In the desert with thee! 
Wild is thy lay, and loud. 
Far m the downy cloud. 

Love gives It energy— love gave It birth. 
Where, on thy dewy wing. 
Where art thou Journeying? 

Thy lay is In heaven— thy love is on eartb. 


O'er fell ind fountain sbeen. 

O'er moor and mountain green, 
Cer the red streamer that heralda the day. 

Over the cloudlet dim. 

Over the rainbow's rim. 
Musical cherub, soar singing away! 

Then when the gloaming comes. 

Low In the heather blooms 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! 

Emblem of happiness, 
Blest la thy dwelling-place- 

O to abide in tlxe "^-^J-JIVJ^J^ 1772-1836). 






Two worlds haat thou to dwell in, 8wMt,— 

The virginal untroubled aky. 
And this vest region at my feet— 

Alaa, but one have II 

To all my eonsa there clinsa the ahade. 
The dullinc ahade of mundane care. 

They amid mortal raiata are made,— 
Thine In Immortal air. 

My heart ia daahed with arlefa and fears; 
jt My aonc comes fluttering, and ia Kone. 
O high above the home of teara, 
■ Sternal Joy, ainc on! 


Somewhat aa thou, Man once could alns. 

In porchen of the lucent morn. 
Ere he had felt hla lack of vrlng. 16 

Or curaed hia iron bourn. 

The apringtlme bubbled in hla throa:. 
The sweet aky aeemed not far above. 
And young and loveaome came the note:— 
Ah, thine ia Youth and Love! 20 

Thou alngeat of what he knew of old. 

And dream-like from afar recalla; 
In flaithea of forgotten gold 

An orient gl:try falls. 

And as he llatens, one by one, 25 

^Life's utmost aplendoura blaze more nigh; 
^Less inaccessible the sun, 
V Less alien grows the sky. 

For thou art native to the spheres. 

And of the courts of heaven art free, 80 

And carriest to his temporal ears 

News from eternity; 

And lead'st him to the dizzy verge. 
And lur'st him o'er the dazzling line, 

Where mortal and immortal merge, 8B 

And human dies divine. 

— William Wataon. 




Oh» to be iu EnKUtnd 

Now th*t Aprira there. 

And whoever wakes «n Bnylasd 

Beee eome inornln« unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

Bound the elm-tre« bole ar»» In tiny leaf, 

While the chafflnch slnss on the orchard boush 

In Bnsland— no ^' 

And Kfter Aprtl when May follows 
And the whltefhroat builds, and all the swallows— 
Hark! where bi'»8somed pear-tree In the hedge 
L«ans to the fleld. and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dew-drops.— at che bent Bpray'n 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The flrst fine careless rapture. 
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
K\\ will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower, 
par brighter than this gaudy melon flower. 

— Browning. 





Nobly, nobiy Cape Bt. Vincent to the North-west 
died away; , ... * 

Sunset ran, one gloilous blood -red, reeling Into 

Cadis Bay; _ _, , , 

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full In face Trafal- 
ttAT l&y ' 

In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gib- 
raltar grand and grey ; 

•Here and there did England help m-: hov/ can 1 
help England f— say, . ^ ^ *„ 

Whoso turns as I, this evenmg, turn to (Jod to 
praiae and pray, 

vVTiiib Joves planet rises yonder, mlent over Africa. 

— Brov/ning. 

:-- i| 



To my true klnf , I offend free from stain. 
Courage and fidth: vain faith, and courace vain. 
For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth away. 
And one dear hope, tliat was more prised than 

For him I languished in a foreign clime, 
Orey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; 
Heard in Lavemla, BcarRiU's' whispering trees, 
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; 
Beheld, each night my home in fevered sleep. 
Each morning started from the dream to weep; 
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave 
The resUng-place I asked, an early grave. 
Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone. 
From that proud country which was once mine 

By those white cliffs I never more must see. 
By that dear language which I spake like thee. 
Forget all feuds, and shed one Bhigiish tear 
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. 

—Macaulov (ISOO-ISSQ). 




If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song. 

May hope, cliaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 

Like thy ow.i solemn springs. 

Thy springs, .and dying gales, 

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun 6 
Bits in yon western t.>nt, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede etherlal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed; 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat. 
With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing; 10 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small, but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; 

Now teach me, maid composed, IB 

To breathe some softened strain. 

1 In North Torlubire on tin upper Tee*. 





WhoM numbera, iteallnc throush tb> darkenins 

May not unrcemly with thy atUlnMa suit: 
As. muBlng alow, I hall 
Thy venial loved return! 

For when thy foldlnc-star arlalng ahowa 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours and Blves 

Who Bleep In Howers the day, 

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with 

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, 
The pensive Pleasures sweet. 
Prepare thy ihadowy car; 

Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake 
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile, 30 

Or upland follows grey 

Reflect Its la«t cool gleam. 

But when chill blustering winds or driving rain 
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut. 

That, from the mountain's side. •» 

Views wilds, and swelling floods. 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

That gradual dusky veil. 


While Spring shall pour his showerf. as oft he wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light; 

While aallow Autumn flita thy lap with leaves; 45 

Or Winter, yelling through the troubloua air. 

Afrrt^U thy ahrinklng train. 

And rudely renda thy robea; 

So long aure-found beneath the aylvan ahed 
Shall Fancy, Friendahip, Science, roae-Upped 
Health, °" 

Thy gentleat influence own. 

And hymn thy favourite "?"»«• __^,__^, 
-^olliru (1720-1766). 





When descend* on the Atlantlo 

The sisanttc 
Stonn>wind of the equinox, 
Landward In hia wrath he acourge* 

The toiUns ■urcea, 
lAden with seaweed from the rocks: 

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges 

Of sunken ledges. 
In some far-off, bright Asore; 
From Bahama, and the dashing. 

Surges of San Salvador; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 
The Orkneyan skerries, 

Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 

And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 
Spars, uplifting 

On the desolate, rainy 


Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches. 
All have found repose again. 

— Longfellow. 


They are all gone into the world of Light, 

And I alone sit lingering here! 
Their very memory is (air and bright. 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters In my cloudy breast 
Like stars upon some Rloomy grove. 

Or these faint beams In witlch this, hill is drest 
Af^er the sun's remove. 




I M« them walking In an air of glory. 
WhoM light doth trample on my days; *» 

My days, w» Ich are at beat but dull and hoary- 
Mere gllm:iierlng» and decays. 

O holy Hope! and high Humility. 

High as the heavens above! 

These are your walks, and you have showed them 1» 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous Death; the Jewel of the Ju«tt 

Shining no where but In the dark: 
What mysteries do He beyond thy dust; 

Could man outlook that mark! ^ 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may 

At first eight If the birds be flown; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now. 

That Is to him unknown. 

And yet. as angels in some brighter dreams. 
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep. 

So wme strange thoughts transcend our wontsd 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb 
Her captive flames must needs burn there; 

But? when the hand that locked her up gives room. 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under Thee! 
Resume Thy spirit from this worid of thrall 

Into true liberty. 




Either disperse these mists, which b!ot and fill 

My perspective, still as they pass: 
Or else remove me hence unto that hill. 

Where I shall need no glass. *" 

-'Vaughan (1621>lw(>i> 



Tm, faith la a foodly anchor; 
When aklfla are aweet as a paalin. 
At the bowa It loUa ao atalwart. 
In bluif, broad-ahouldered calm. 

And when over breakera to leeward ft 

The tattered aurcea are hurled, 

It may keep our head to the tempeat. 

With Ita rrip on the baae of the world. 

But, after the ahipwreck, tell me 

What help In Ita iron thewa. iO 

Still true to the broken hawaer. 

Deep down amonr aea-weed and ooie? 

In the breaklns sulfa of aorrow. 

When the helpleaa feet atretch out. 

And find In the deepa of darkneaa 10 

No footing aa aolid aa doubt. 

Then better one apar of Memory, 

One broken plank of the Paat, 

That our human heart may clin^ to, 

Thoush hopeleea of ahore at laat! SO 

To the apirit ita aplendid conjecturea. 
To the fleah ita aweet deapatr, 
Jta teara o'er the thin-worn locket 
With ita ancuiah of deathleaa hair! 

Immortal? I feel it and know it, SS 

Who doubta it of auch aa ahe? 
But that ia the panv'a very aecret,— 
Immortal away from me. 

There'a a narrow ridce in the graveyard 
Would acarce stay a child in hla race, 80 

But to me and my thought it ia wider 
Than the atar-aown vague of Space. 

Tour logic, my friend, ia perfect. 

Tour morala moat drearily true; 

But, aince the earth claahed on her cofflnn SB 

. I keep hearing that, and not you. 


ConMle If you wUl, I can bear It; 
•Tto 8 well meant alma of breath; 
But not all the preaching Blnce Adam 
Has made Death other than Death. 

It la pagan; but wait till you feel It.— 
The Jar of our earth— that dull ahock 
When the ploughahare of deeper paaalon 
Tears down to our primitive rock. 

Communion In spirit? Forgive me. 
But I, who am earthly and weak, 
Would give all the incomes from dreamland 
Tor a touch of her hand on my cheek. 

That little shoe In the corner. 
So worn and wrinkled and brown, 
Wlfh Its emptiness confutes you. 
And argues your wisdom down. 




— Lowell. 


The worid is too much with us; late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see In Nature that is ours; 

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 

The Sea that bares her bosom to the mo?"' 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers. 

For these, for everything, we are out of tune; 

It moves us not-Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled In a creed outworn: 

So mlrfht I. standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn. 

Have Bight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
or hear old Triton blow »»^ -^^^^^^^.^^ 1806. 





Let me not to the marrlase of true minds 

Admit impediments. Ijove is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends witli the remover to remove: 

Oh, no! it is an ever-flxed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering' bark. 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be 

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. 
But bears it out' even to the edge of doom 
If this be error, and upon me prov'd, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 





In the long, sle«ples8 watches of the night, 
A gentle fac«> — the face of one long dead — 
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head 

The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. 

Here in this room she died; and soul more white 5 
Never through martyrdom by fire was led 
To Its repose; nor can in books he read 

The legend tH a life more benedlght. 

There is a mountain In the distant West 
That, sun-defying, in Its deep ravines 10 

Displays a cross of snow upon its side. 
Such is the cross I wear iMjon my breast 
These eighteen years, through all the changing 
And seasons, changeless since the day she died. 


1 CMittnuaa ataadfait 




A wind came up out of the sea. 

And Hiid. "O milts, make room for me." 

It hailed the Bhlpa, and cried, "Sail on, 
Te mariners, the night is gone." 

And hurried landward far away, 
Crying, "Awake! it Is the day." 

It said unto the forest, "Shout! 
Hang all your leafy banners out!" 

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing. 
And said, "O bird, awake and sing." 

And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,^ 
Your clarion blow; the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of com, 
'•Bow down, and hall the coming morn." 

It shouted through the belfry-tower, 
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh. 
And said, "Not yet, in quiet He." 

— Longfellow. 




Tb-night the sunset spreads two golden wings 

Cleaving the western sky; 
Winged too with the wind It is. and wlnnowSngs 
Of birds; as if the day's last hour in rings 

Of strenuous flight must die. 


SiuiHrteep«d in Arc, the liomeward pinions away 

Above the dovecot-topa; 
And crowds of itarllnKa. ere they rest with day. 
Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play, 

By turns in every copse: 


Kach tree heart-deep the wran^lnv rout receives,— 

Save the whirr within, 
You could not tell the starlings from the leaves: 
Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm 

Away with all its din. » 

Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight. 

To many a refuge tend; 
With the first Uifht she laughed, and the last light 
Glows round her still; who natheless in the night 

At length must make an end. 20 

And now the mustering rooks Innumerable 

Together sail and soar, 
While afar the day's death, like a tolling knell. 
Unto the heart they seem to cry. Farewell, 

No more, farewell, no moret 80 

Is Hope not plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart? 

And oh! thou dying day, 
Even as thou goest must she too depart, 
And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart 

As will not fly away? . ^ ,._, , „ ,*• 

—Dante Gabriel RottetU. 




How happy is he born and taught, 
That Bcrveth not another's will; 

Whose armour Is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill; 


Whose paMlona not hl« maatera are; 

Whoae aoul la atlll prepafd for death. 
Untied unto the world with care 
Of public fame or private breath. 

Who envlea none that chance doth ralae. 

Or vice: hath ever understood 
How deepeat wounds are given with praise, 

Nor rules of state, but rules of good; 

Who hath his life from humours freed; 

Whose conscience Is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 

Nor ruin make oppressors great; 

Who Ood doth late and early pray. 
More of His grace than gifts to lend; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend. 

This man Is free from servile bands 

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands. 
And having nothing, yet J»a^h »"• ^.. 

—Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1838). 






Upcn the hour when I was born. 

Ood said. "Another man shall be. 
And the great Maker did not scorn 

Out of Himself to fashion me; 
He sunned me with Hla ripening looks. 

And Heaven's rich Instincts In me grew. 
As effortless as woodland nooks 

Bend violets up and paint them blue. 



Tm. I who now, with angry tMra, 

Am Mdtodi baok to brutiah olod. 
Have born* unquenched for four-aeor* y«ani 

A spark o( the atcmal Qod; 
And to what and? How yield I back 

The truat for mwA high usea gtvenT 
Heaven's light hath but revealed a track 

Whereby to crawl away from Heaven. 


Men think It la an awful eight 

To see a aoul Juet eet adrift 
On that drear voyage from whose night 

The ominoua ahadowa never lift: 
But 'tla more awful to behold 

A helpless infant newly born. 
Whoae little handa unconacloua hold 

The keya of darkness and of mom. 

Mine held them once; I flung away 

Thoae kejrs that might have open eet 
^ The golden aluices of the day. -^ 

But clutch the keya of darkneas yet;— 
I hear the reapera aurglng go 

Into Ood'a harveat; I. that might 
With them have choaen. here below 

Orope Juddering at the gatea of night. 



O glorloua Youth, that once was mine! 

O high Ideal! all In vain 
Te enter at thin ruined ahrlne 

Whence worahip ne'er ahall rlae again; 
The bat and owl Inhabit here. 

The snake neata In the altar-atone. 
The sacred vessels moulder near; 
The Image of the God Is gone. 

—Janie$ Ruttell Lowell. 




Swiftly walk orer the western w«ve, 

spirit of Night! 
out of the mtaty e»»tern cave, 
Where, all the long and lone day"**'*' 

Thou woveet dr**"'" °V.°^«t!i dear - 
Which wake thee terrible and dear. 
*• Swift be thy flight! 


Wrap thy form In a mantle gray, 

Star-lnwrought! «. 

Blind with thine hair the ey«i of Day, W 

K18B her until she be wearied out. 

Then wander o'er city, and eea. and land. 

?ouchrng all with thine opiate wand- 
Come, long Bought! 

When I ajoee and Miw the dawn 

I sighed for thee; 
When llght^rode high and the dew waB gone. 

And noon lay heavy on Aovj" ^Pf. r^t. 
And the weary Day turned to hia reat. ^ 

Lingering like an unloved gueat. 
I sighed for thee. 



Thy brother Death came and cried, 

WouldBt thou me? 
Thy Bweet child Sleep, the Almy-eyed. 
Murmured like a noontide bee. 
Shall I nestle near thy »««e'^ ., . 
WouldBt thou me?— And I replied. 

No, not thee! 


Death win come when thou art dead. ^ 

Boon, too soon— 
Sleep will come when thou art tted; 
Oi neither would I ask the boon 
I sBk Of thee, beloved Nlght- 
Bwlft be thine approaching nigni. ^ 

Come soon, soon! £,v„„^„ 

—Percy Byashc ffhelley. 





■ 3^ 






■ 4.0 

■ 2.5 



165J East Main Street 

Rochester. New York 14609 USA 

(716) 482 - OJOO - Phone 

(716) 288 - 5989 - Fo. 




Just for a day you croBsed my life's dull track, 
Put my Ignobler dreams to sudden shame, 

Went your bright way, and left me to fall back 
On my own world of poorer deed and aim; 

To fall back on my meaner world, and feel 
Like one who, dwelling 'mid some smoke-dimmed 
town, — 
In a brief pause of labour's sullen wheel,— 
'Scaped from the street's dead dust and factory's 
frown, — 

In stainless daylight saw the pure seas roll, 
Saw mountains pillaring the perfect sky: 

Then Journeyed home, to carry in his soul 
The torment of the difference till he die. 

—William Wat»on. 



Creep into thy narrow bed. 
Creep, and let no more be said! 
Vain thy onset! all stands fast. 
Then thyself must break at last. 

l*et the long contention cease! 
Oeese are swans and swans are geese. 
Let them have It how they will! 
Thou art tired; best be still. 

They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee! 
Better men fared thus before thee; 
Fired their ringing shot and pass'd. 
Hotly charged— and sank at last. 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb! 
Let the victors, when they come. 
When the forts of folly fall. 
Find thy body by the wall. 

— Mattheto Arnold, 





Fear aeath?-to feel the fog in my throat, 
^e^ SUowTb^S and the blasts denote 
TLTow^To?1hrni&rthe press of the storm. 
Wh^reCstand's! t^ Arch Foar in a visible form. 
Fo?tVe^rey^sTone"S tlTe summit attained. 
Th^ou'graTaltrs'U^.ht ere the guerdon be 

I VZ IvTa flgVtern-o-ne fight more. 

I ^o^rharthr Sh bandaged my eyes, and 

p„?.s'in^S"r.r.r.> ^ to ..e .^v. 

Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall change, shall become first a peace oui 

pain, ^ . 

o?hou LKrso^ulT SI' Clasp thee again. 

And with God be the rest. _^^^ drowning. 






One feast, of holy days the crest 
I. though no Churchman, love to lce«p. 

All-Saint8.-the unknown good that rest 
T« r"n<i'it Htm memory folded aeep, 

The bravely dumb that did their deed. 
And scorned to blot it with a name, 

^^U^red^H-rnrsilrncf more than fame. 



Such llyed not In the past alone, 

But thread to-day the unheeding street, 10 

And stairs to Sin and Famine known. 

Sing with the welcome of their feet; 
The den they enter grows a shrine. 

The grimy sash an oriel burns. 
Their cup of water warms like wine, 16 

Their speech is filled from heavenly urns. 

About their brows to me appears 

An aureole traced in tenderest light. 
The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears 

In dying eyes by them made bright. 
Of souls that shivered on the edge 

Of that chill ford repassed no more. 
And in their mercy felt the pledge 

And sweetness of the farther shore. 

—James Rtusell Lowell. 



When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state. 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. 

And look upon myself, and curse my fate, 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd. 

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope. 

With what I most enjoy contented least; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost di'spising. 

Haply I think on thee.— and then my state, 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate; 

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings. 

That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 




At the corner of Wood Btreet, when daylight ap- 
Han^t"thru«h that sings loud. It has sung for 

Poor Su'san'htriassed by the spot, af* ^" J?^ 
In the silence ot morning the song of the bird. 

•Tls a note of enchantment: what alls her? She ^ 

A mo^aln ascending, a vision of t^*!"; ^ 

BrlKht columns of vapour through Lothbury glioe. 
And a riverfl^s on through the vale of Cheapslde. 

Green pastures she views In the midst of the dale 
S^S which she so often has t^iPPed with her pall. 10 
And a single small cottage. %"«»* »*« */°7 ■' 
The ore only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart Is In heaven, but they 

The mtsfand the river, the ^n and the .h«de; 
The stream will not flow, and the hill ^1" iwt rise lo 
And the colours have all passed away from her 
«y«"* —Wordstcorth. 

(Oh thb death or Lincomi.) 

O captain! my Captain! our fearful t^P «f d°"*; 
The ship has weathered every rock, the prise we 

The ^rf fs i'eaHhe bells I hear, the people all 

WhlleTllow^iyes the steady keel, the ves«sl grim 
and daring; 
But O heart! heart! heart! 
O the bleeding drops of red. 

When on the deck my CapUln lies. 
Fallen cold and dead. 




O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 
Rise up— for you the flag is flung— fo<- you the bugle 

trtlls, 10 

For you bouquets and rlbbon'd wreaths— for you 

the shores a-crowdlng, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager 
faces turning; 
Here Captain, dear father! 

This arm beneath your head! 

It is some dream that on the deck, 15 

You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and 

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse 

nor will. 
The ship Is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage 

closed and done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes In with 

object won; 20 

Exult O shores, and ring O bells! 
But I with mournful tread,. 

Walk the deck my Captain lies. 
Fallen cold and dead. 

— Walt Whitman. 

SEPTEMBER 3, 1802. 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
Dull V uld hi be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 

This city now doiib like a garment, wear 

The beauty of the morning, silent, bare. 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields and to the sky; 

All bright ard glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 

Never saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 
The river glided at his own sweet will; 

Dear God! The very houses seem asleep. 
And all that mighty heart is lying still. 






How Bleep the brave who sink to rest. 
By all their country'a wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy flngei-s cold. 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
TTian Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell Is rung; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall a while repair. 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 




Old Tew. which graspest at the stones 
That name clie under-lying dead. 
Thy nbres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons ^rlng the flowers again. 

And bring tuo firstling to the flock; 

And In the dusk of thee, the clock 
Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not In any gale. 
Nor branding summer suna a /all 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom: 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 

Sick for thy Btubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fall from out my blood 

And grow Incorporate Into thee. 

— Tennvaon. 






Ah! did you m* BhcUey plain. 

And did he stop and apeak to yon. 
And did you apeak to him asain? 

How atrance it aeems and newt 

But you were living before that. 

And also you are Mvinff after; 
And the memory I atartled at— 

My startling movea your laushterl 

I croaaed a moor, with a name of <Ui own. 
And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 

Tet a hand'a-breadth of it ehinee alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about. 

Por these I picked up on the heather 
And there I put inaide my breast 

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! 
Well, I forcet the rest. 

— Brouming, 



ON ma BUNDNE88. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 

And that one talent which is death to hide. 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 5 

My true account, lest He, returning chide; 

"Doth God exact day-labour, ll^t denied r' 
I fondly ask; but patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies. "Ood doth not need 
Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His 
Is kingly; thousands at Hto bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and oeean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 





Seaaon of mtota and mellow frultfulnen! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing aun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the Tines that round the thatch-eaves 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
And All all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hasel shells 
With a sweet kernel; to set bi'ddlng more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
Until they think warm days will never cease. 
For Summer hajr -• mmed their clammy 




Who bath not seen •. -.ild t^-.y store? 

Sometimes whoever . abros may find 

Thee sitting careless on a granai;. floor. 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. 
Drowsed with the fume of popples, while thy 
Spares the next swath and all Its twtnM flow- 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 

Or by a elder-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oosinga, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are 
Think not of them. Thou hast thy music too. 
While barrM clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 
And touch the stubble-palns with rosy-hue; 
Then In a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft. 
And gathering swallows twitter In the skies. 

—John Keutt. 








This IB the ship of pearl, which, poets feicn. 

Sails the unshadowed main.— 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- 
ing hair. 

Its webs of living gause no more unfurl; 

Wreclied is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 
As the frail tenant shaped its growing shell. 

Before thee lies revealed,— 
Its Irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 

Tear after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread its lustrous coil; 

Still/ as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through. 

Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the 
old no more. 




Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee. 

Child of the wandering sea. 

Cast from her lap forlorn! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is bom 26 

Than ever Triton blew from wreathftd horn! 

While on my ear It rings. 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 

that sings: — 
Build thee more stately mansions. O my soul. 

As the swift seasons roll! 80 

Leave thy low- vaulted pcuit! 
Liet each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting 

t! 8S 

— OUver Wendell Holmea. 




It ia not growing like a tree 

In balk, aoth make man better be ; 

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 

To fall a log at Uwt, dry, bald, and iopu 
A lily of a day 
la fairer far in May, 
AlUiough it fall and die that night- 
It wan the {dant and flower of light. 

In Bmall proportions we just beauties see ; 

And in short measures life may perfect b-^. 

— Beti Jmuou. 



Lie not ; but let thy heart be true tc -<od. 
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both: 
Cowards teU lies, and those that fear the rod ; 
The stormy working soul spits lies and froth. 

Dare to be true. Nothing can need a he ; 

A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. 

Fly idleness, which yet thou canst not fly 
By dressing, mistressing, and compliment. 
If those take up thy day, the sun will c^ 
Against thee ; for his light was only lent. 
God gave thy soul brave wings; put not 
Into a bed, to sleep out all iU weathers. 


.luae feathers 

Who keeps no guard upon himself, is sluck. 

And rots to nofliing at the next great thaw. 

Man is a shop of rules, a well-truss'd pack, 

Whose every parcel underwrites a law. 

Lose not thyself, nor give thy humours way : 
God gave them to thee under lock and key. 

By all means use some times to be alone. 

Salute thyseU: see what thv soul doth wear. 

Dare to look in thy chest: for 't« thine own: 

And tumble up and down what thou find st there. 
Who cannot rest till he good fellows fand. 
He breaks up house, turns out of doors hia mind. 

— George Herbert. 




A LunmoAra nr 

AboYS yon Kmibce awell of land 

ThoQ Ment tho dawo't gmve onuig* ho*, 
With one pale streak like vellow aand, 

And over that a vein of Moa. 

The air is oold above the woods i 6 

AU silent is the earth and sky, 
Except with his own lonely moods 

The Uaokbird holds a oolloqay. 

Over the broad hill creeps a, beam. 

Like hope that gilds a good man's brow, 10 

And now asoends the nostril-stream 

Of stalwart ho rs es come to |doagh. 

Ye rigid Ploo^mien, bear in mind 

Yoar labour is for future hours 1 
Advance — spare not — nor look behind : 

Plough deep and strai^t with all your p^- ■m. 

— Ridtard Hengt,, jiome. 



Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Fmever and forever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet Uien a river : 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be. 

Forever and f<««vw. 

But here will sigh thine idder tree. 
And here thine aspen shiver ; ■ 

And here by thee wul hum the bee. 
Forever and f wever. 




A tlxMuand ram will rrtavam on thae, 

A UionMuid moons will qairsr t 
Bnt not by tbee my iteps ah-Ul be, 15 

Forever and forever. 

— A\frtd, Lord TetMyaoN. 


Fbom "Catauxk Lybkb." 

Boot, Middle, to horse, and away I 
Beooae my ouitle before the hot day 
BrifffatenK to blue from its silvt^ry gray. 

Cbokus. — Boot, aaddle, to horse, and away I 

Bide past the suburbs, asleep as you'd aay ; 6 

Many 8 the friend there, will listen and ymv 
** Qod's luck to g&llantL that strike up the lay — 
Csomus. — aoot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 

Yariy miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 
Ilonta Castle Branoepeth the RouncUieadB' array : 10 
Who laughs, "GJood fellows ere this, by my fay, 
Chobcs. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! " 

Who? My ':rife Oertruda; that, honest and gay, 
lAUshs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay ! 
Tvebetter counsellors; what couniiel they?" 15 

Chobcs. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away I 

— Robert Browning. 



That's my la^t Duchess painted on the wall. 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That pMce a wonder, now : FrJk Pandolf s hands 
Worked bnsily a day, and there she stands. 
Will't pease you sit and look at her ? I said 
" Vrk Pandolf" by design : for never read 
Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 


The depth and pMsion of its earnest glance, 
But to myiielf they turned (since none puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for yon, but I) 
And seemed as thoy would ask me, if thev durst. 
How such a glance came there ; so, not toe first 
Are vou to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 
Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
Of joy into the uuchess' cheek : perhaps 
¥rk Pkmdolf chanced to say " Her mantle laps 
Over my lady^s wrist too much," or "Paint 
Must never nope to reproduce the faint 
Half -flush that dies alone her throat :" such stuff 
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 
For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
A heart— how shall I say? — too soon made glad. 
Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er 
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
Sir, 'twas all one I My favour at her breast. 
The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
The bou{^ o? cherries some o£Bcious fool 
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 
She rode with round the terrace — all and each 
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,— good ! but 

Somehow — I know not how — aa if she ranked 
1^ ^ft of a nine-hundred-years-old name 
mto anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 
liiis sort of trifling? Even had you skill 
In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 
Quite clear to such an one, and say, " Just this 
Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss. 
Or there exceed the mark " — and if she let 
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 
— E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose 
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 
Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 
Much the same smile 7 This grew ; I gave com- 
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 
As if alive. Will't please yea rise ? We'll meet 
The company below, then. I repeat. 
The Count your master's known munificence 
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 












Of mine for dowry will be diaaUowed ; 
Though hia fair (uno^ter's self, aa I avowed 
At starting, is my object. Notice Neptune, though. 
Taming a aea-horiie, uiouKht a rarity, 
Which Claos of InnabmoK cast in bronxe for me ! 65 

— Robert Browning. 


Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
And students Mrith their pensive citadels ; 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom. 
So blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, 
High as the highest Peak of Fumess- fells, 
Wul murmur by the hour in foxglove bells. 
In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me. 
In sundry mo<xlB, 'twas pastime to be bound 
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. 
Should find brief solace there, as I have founcL 
— William Wordsworth. 



Meek spirit, who so early didst depart, 
Thou art at rest in Heaven ! I linger here, 
And feed the lonely anguish of my heart ; 
Thinking of all that made existence dear — 
All lost! If in the happy world above 5 

Remembrance of this mortal life endure. 
Thou wilt not then forget the perfect love 
Which still thou seest in me,— O spirit pure ! 
And if the irremediable grief. 
The Woe which never hopes on earth relief, 10 
May merit ought of thee, prefer thy prayer 
To God, who took thee early to his rest. 
That it may please him soon amid the blest 
To summon me, dear maid I to meet thee there. 
— Camoens, trarukUed hy Souihey. 


f 19 



Tbchi "Pifpa Pi 

The yen's at the apring 
And day's at the xaarcL', 
Moming'B at seven ; 
The hiluide's dew-pearled ; 
The lark's on the wing ; 
Tlie snail's on the thorn ; 
God's in His heaven — 
All's rij^t with the wwld ! 

— SUiMn Brcmpnmg. 


ThoQ fair-hairad Angsl of the Evening, 
Now, whilst the sun rests on the Jnountains, light 
Thy bright torch of love ; thy radiant orown 
Put on, and «uile upon our evening bed ! 
Smile on our loves; and while thou diawest the 5 
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew 
On eveiy flower that diuts its sweet eyes 
In timely sleepu Let thy west wind deep on 
The lake; speak silence with thy elimmering eyes, 
And wash the dusk with silver. — aoaa, full soon, 10 
Itostthoa witiidraw ; then the wolf rases wide, 
And tiien the lion glares through the dun forest. 
The fleeces of our nocks are covered with 
Thy SBored dew : protect them with thine influence ! 

— WiUkam Blakt. 


I slept and dreamed that life was Beauty ; 

1 woke, and found that life was Duty. 

Was thy dream then a shadowy lie f 
Toil on, sad heart, oourageously, 

And thou shalt find thy dreiun to be 

A noon-day light and truth to thee. 

— E^en Sturgia Hooper. 



Ifastor of huaum deBtinies am 1 1 
Fame, lore and fartone on my footsteps waiU 
Cities and fields I walk ; I penetrate 
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by 
Hovel and mart and palace — soon or late 
I knock unbidden once at e^^ery gate ! 

If sleeping, wake — if feasting, rise before 
I turn away. It is the hour of fate, 
And they who follow me reach every state 
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe 
Save death ; but those who doubt or hesitate, 
Condemned to failure, penury and woe, 
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. 
I answer not, and I return no more 1 

—John T. IngalU. 


An Old SroiEr. 

It was roses, rases, all the way, 

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad : 

The houae-roof s seemed to heave and sway, 
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, 

A year ago on uiis very day. 

The air broke into a mist with bells, 

The old walls rocked with the crowd and mes. 
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels — 

But give me your sun from yonder skies !" 
They had answered, "And afterward, what else?" 

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
To give it my loving friends to keep ! 

Nought man could do, have I left undone: 
And you see my harvest, what I reap 

This very day, now a year is run. 

There's nobody on the house-tops now — 
Just a palsied few at the windows set ; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow. 
At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet, 

By the Tery scaffold's foot, I trow. 




» 89 
jl 3E 

i" • — 


I gc in the rain, and, more then needs, 

A rope cats into mv wriste behind ; 
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds. 

For they flinfc, whoever has a mind, 
Stoneo at me for my year's misdeeds. SS 

Thus I entered, and thus I go t 

In triumphs, peorile have dropped down dead.- 
" Paid by the world, what dost thoa owe 

Mef — Ood might question : now instead 
'Tis €tod shall repay : lamstJerso. .30 

— Bobert Browniug. 


From gold to grav 

Our mild, sweet oay 
Of Indian summer fades too soon ; 

But tenderly 

Above the sea 
Hangp, white and calm, the hunter's moon. 

O'er fallen leaves 

The west wind grieves, 
Yet comes a seed-time round again ; 

And morn shall see 

The State sown free 
With baleful tares or healthful grain. 


Around I see 

The powers that be ; 
I stand bv Empire's primal sfuings ; 

And princes meet, 

In every street. 
And hear the tread of uncrowned kings ! 

Not lightly fall 

Beyond recall 
The written scrolls a breath can float; 

The crowning fact. 

The kingliest act 
Of Freedom is the Freeman's vote ! 




Shame from our hearts 25 

Unworthy arts, 
The fraud designed, the purpose dark ; 

And smite 4way 

The hands we lay 
Profanely on the sacred ark. 30 

a. Whittifr. 


From heaven bis spirit came, and robed in clay 
The realms of justice and of meroy trod. 
Then rose a living man to raze on God, 

That he might make the truth as clear as day. 

For that pure star that brightened with his ray 
The ill-deserving nest where I was bcm, 
The whole wide world would be a prize to »ix>rn ; 

None but his maker can due guerdon pay. 

I speak of Dante, whose high work remains, 
Unknown, unhonored by that thankless brood. 
Who only to just men deny their wage. 

Were I but he ! Born for like lingering pains, 
Against his exile coupled with his gooa 
rd gladly change the world's best heritage ! 

— Michad Angela, truncated by J. A, 8yraond«. 



The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day 
And saw that gentle figure pass 
By London Bridge, his frequent way — 
They little knew what man h& wat>. 

The pointed beard, the courteous mien. 
The equal port to high and low. 
All this they saw or might have seen — 
But not the light behind the brow ! 

The doublet's modest gray or browii. 
The slender sword-hilfs plain device. 
What sign had these for prince or clown? 
Few turned, or none x> scan him twice. 

\ fl* 

^ It 

1 s 







'et 'twM the kii^ of Engkod'a Ungs ! 
The rest with all their ponu aad tnata. 
Axe mouldered, helf-remembered thii^*— 
TiB he alone that Uvea and reigna I 

—Thomiu BuOejf Aldriek. 



[A Fk&gmknt or a DRiAx>vnioK.] 
In Xanadn did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasnre-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 5 

80 twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And there were sardens br^t with sinuous rills 
Where blossomed many an moense-bearing tiee; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills. 10 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
But oh ! that dee^ romantic chasm whict^ slcnted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedam cover i 
A savaro place I as holy and enchanted 
As e'er oeneath a waning moon was haunted 15 

By wcnnaa wailing for Ler d«non-lover I 
And from this chaftm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A raighty fountain momently was forced : 
And whose swift half -intermitted burst 20 

Huge fragments vaulted like cebonndine bail. 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's feil; 
And 'mid these danoine rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 2S 

Through wood and dtUe the eocred river ran. 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man. 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean ; 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war. 10 

The shadows of the dome of pleasure 

Floated mid-way on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 

It WM » minds of nut* cbrtoe, 

A sonny plMrare-dome with caves of ica i 

A damwl with a dulcimer 

In a Tiaion onoe I eaw : 

It wnu an Abyarin^an maid. 

And on her dnloimer she pUyed, 

Sineinff of Mount Abora. 

Conid I revive within me 

Her symphony and sonc, 

To sacfa a deep driight twoald win m» 
That with mosio load and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome t those eaves of iee f 
And all who heard riionld see them titers. 
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware I 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
Weave a circle round him tlmoe. 
And close rour eyes with holT draad, 
For he on hon^-dew hath fea. 
And drunk the milk of Fttradise. 


— S-. T. Coleridge. 


The rain had fallen, the Poet arose 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
A light wind Mew from the gates of the sun. 

And waves of riiadow went over the wheat. 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanf«d a melody loud ana sweet, 
Thai made the wild-swan pause iu ber cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak. 

And stared, with his foot on the prey. 
And the nighting-de thought, " I have sung many 

Bur. never a one so gay. 
For ho sings of what we world will be 

Whim the years have died away." 

— Aifred, Lord Tennyaon. 





noM "A powra MPiTAi^n'' 

Bat who is He, with modcat looiu^ 
And olad in homely roaaet brown 7 
He nrannnra near the running Inrooka 
A nraaio sweeter thsn their own. 

He is retired m noontide dew, 
Or foontain in • noon-d«y grove ; 
And yon must love him, ere to yon 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The ontward shows of sky and earth, 
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
And impnlses of deeper birth 
Have oome to him in solitude. 

On common things that round ns lie 
Some random truths he can impart, — 
The harvest of a quiet ejre 
That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 

But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land ; 
Contented if he mij^t eujoy 
The things which ^ers understand. 

— Come hither in thy hour of strength; 
Come weak as is a breaking wave I 
Here stretch thy body at rail length ; 
Or build thy house upon this grave. 

— William Wordtworth. 






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